


A Slave In the Mirror

by Tailkinker



Series: CollarVerse Mirror [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, CollarVerse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tailkinker/pseuds/Tailkinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Collarverse/Canonverse crossover. Wilson goes to House's apartment and finds his friend lying asleep in bed with a collar around his neck. When House wakes up and starts calling himself a slave Wilson knows something is very wrong.</p><p>For more information about the CollarVerse and links to the CollarVerse stories on ff.net please see notes for the first chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The CollarVerse stories can be found on fanfiction.net[here](http://www.fanfiction.net/community/CollarVerse/85158/14/0/1/)._
> 
> _The main premise of the CollarVerse is that Greg House is a slave, while still working in the same position as Diagnostics Department Head at PPTH. Wilson is very interested in Doctor House, and not in a good way._
> 
> _The two main stories in the CollarVerse are[Collar Redux Season One ](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5778376/1/CollarRedux) and [Collar Redux Season Two](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6275681/1/CollarRedux_Season_2) by [Oflymonddreams](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2268301/oflymonddreams) who created the universe. Both those stories retell the events of canon episodes, with the main difference being that Greg House is now a slave._
> 
> _This story takes place immediately after the events of[chapter 12 (Distractions)](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6275681/12/CollarRedux_Season_2) of the second story. House has been sentenced to receive 100 lashes for various transgressions comitted in that chapter, he has received the first fifty when this story opens._
> 
> _Due to the nature of the CollarVerse most of the stories are dark, and contain multiple instances of abuse and non-con, mostly of Greg House. The Wilson of the CollarVerse is a dark!Wilson (although his actions are perfectly acceptable in the universe he lives in)_
> 
> _All of my CollarVerse stories are written with the kind permission of Oflymonddreams who has been very generous in sharing the world they created. They should all be considered AU to the main CollarVerse written by Oflymonddreams, although they share many of the same concepts._
> 
> _If you are interested in finding out how Greg House became a slave in the first place that story is told in Seven Stages (two parallel stories, one story written from[Greg's Point of View](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6548824/1/Seven_Stages_Gregs_Story) and [one from the other characters](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6548175/1/Seven_Stages)) and Sixteen Days (again from[Greg's POV](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7054595/1/Sixteen_Days_Gregs_Story) and also from the [other characters](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7052946/1/Sixteen_Days)). Please heed the warnings on both stories._

Wilson knocked again, loudly, on House's apartment door. He was sure the man was in there, just ignoring him as usual. House had been impossible on his last case, inducing a migraine, playing some sort of practical joke on the evil 'Von Lieberman", who turned out to be a perfectly normal person who had turned House in for cheating decades ago.

Then Cameron had come to him and reported that House had quite probably done some illegal drugs to get rid of the migraine, at work, while on a case. He'd solved the case but still, there was a limit to what Cuddy was prepared to overlook.

House needed a distraction that wasn't going to hurt him, or any innocent bystanders. Wilson had procured a six pack of beer and some luridly pornographic DVDs and had come to drag House out of his miserable state, whether he liked it or not.

When there was still no answer to his knocking, Wilson took the spare key out of his pocket and let himself in, hoping that House wasn't in the middle of something either illegal or immoral. The apartment was quiet, a fine layer of dust over the shelves, whatever House had been doing hadn't involved cleaning. He wandered through the apartment calling his friend's name but there was no answer. Finally he went to the bedroom, hoping that he wouldn't find House comatose after a drug overdose.

His heart caught in his throat as he saw House lying on the bed, face down, only a sheet covering him.

"House? Wake up, House, I have beer and porn." He made his way over to the bed quickly and put down a hand to shake House's shoulder, he heard a faint groan and breathed a sigh of relief. "So, you are alive, come on House, up and at 'em." He took his hand away and then stared at it, there was a smear of blood covering his hand.

He took hold of the sheet and pulled it off. House was naked and there were vivid red lines all across his back and shoulders, some of them dotted with blood. House had been flogged. Severely.

Over the years Wilson had known House the other man had often joked about bondage, he'd also self harmed a few times, that Wilson knew of. He wondered if this was the result of some self destructive streak House had been on. But the marks were severe, this would have hurt a lot - surely beyond any masochistic 'gating mechanism' ploy? They also appeared to be untreated, Wilson's medical instincts screamed about possible infection and unseen damage. House would need to have these examined.

"House, wake up!" he repeated, he needed House to wake up and answer questions, he had to know what was going on here.

The other man groaned and turned his head to one side, eyes opening blearily. He looked confused for a moment, and then wary, and then the pain from the weals seemed to hit him and his eyes opened wide.

Wilson looked around for the familiar pill bottle, there on the bedstand. Deal with the pain first, then treat the injury, then find out what the hell had happened.

"When did you last have Vicodin, House?"

"Vicodin?" House slurred. "Where am I? Where have you taken me?"

Wilson bent down near to his friend's head and looked into his eyes. Pupils were normal, not constricted, no overdose. Probably safe to give him a couple of Vicodin but he didn't like this confusion. He wondered if there was a head injury. He put his hand out to touch House's head, ready to feel around it for bumps but House shied back from his touch.

"House, hold still, I just need to check your head for bumps. Did you hit your head, did you lose consciousness?"

"I tend to after the first forty or so strokes, of course they wake you up so you can get the rest. No point whipping an unconscious slave after all. How would the slave learn?"

"Slave?" Wilson was getting seriously worried now, his friend was delirious. Surely no BDSM practitioner would go as far as this. Something was going on here, he reached for his cell phone, ready to call for an ambulance. Then he looked closer at House's throat and saw what he hadn't at first, he'd been so focused on the wounds on House's back. There was a metal collar enclosing his throat, four rings placed in it at equal intervals. He put out a hand to touch it and encountered a shiny metal tag hanging down from the collar. He turned it over to see 'James Wilson' engraved on it.

Wilson dropped the tag and took a step back, his mind reeling. What sort of sick games had House been playing?

"House, please tell me what is going on. I need to call an ambulance for you, but if there is something going on... something illegal maybe...You have a collar..."

"An ambulance? Why didn't you just leave me in the slave ward if you're so concerned? Why did you take me out anyway? There's still another fifty to go if you haven't forgotten - I'm sure you haven't though. No way would you miss that show. Bet you were eating it up weren't you..."

Wilson put his hands up, palms out.

"House, House, stop! I have no idea what you're talking about...you're delirious. You're not a slave..."

House narrowed his eyes at him, his hand going up to his throat.

"This collar says otherwise. You placed your tag on it, you can't have forgotten about it."

"I'm calling the ambulance." Wilson took his phone up again and started pressing buttons. "We'll figure this out later."

"No." House's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes were wide and staring at Wilson. "Not yet."

House rolled onto his side and then pushed himself to a sitting position, his face contorting with pain.

"Who am I, Wilson? If I'm not a slave. And where is this?"

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and then shrugged, going along with House for the moment.

"You're Doctor Gregory House, you are head of Diagnostics at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. You live here, you have for fifteen years. House, I think you might have had a bad trip, or something...Cameron said she thought you were doing LSD at work today. You are _not_ a slave."

House stared at him, and then looked around the room. When he looked back at Wilson there was a strange look on his face.

"The first five years, I used to dream that I was free, doing things everyone else could do. Then I would wake up, and there would still be this..." he gestured up to his throat, indicating the heavy collar. "Then the dreams came less often. The last five years I haven't dreamed it once. It's been better that way. Please Wilson, don't play games with me. Not about this," he swallowed heavily, looked away. "Do whatever else you want, I can't stop you, but please don't..."

To Wilson's horror House slipped off the bed, onto his knees. He bowed his head and put his hands behind his back. His knees were slightly spread, every inch of him screamed submission and vulnerability. He didn't seem at all concerned about the fact that he was still naked, didn't make any attempt to cover up his scar.

"Please don't pretend that I'm not...don't play that game."

Wilson didn't know how to make House believe, what to say, what to do. House was obviously severely deluded, in pain, delirious maybe. He needed to get him help, get his wounds looked at, maybe do a tox screen. Wilson didn't want to take him into PPTH like this, or even Princeton General, everyone there knew who House was. And truthfully Wilson wanted some back up to deal with this.

"House. Get up, get back on the bed please. Lie down again, I'm going to call Cuddy, get her to come and help, okay?"

House lifted his head back up.

"Cuddy?"

"Yes, she'll bring some stuff. I won't take you anywhere but we need to get your back looked at. Do something about..." he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of House's collar. Wilson didn't want to make the call while in the same room as House, he didn't want to agitate his friend any further, but he didn't want to leave him kneeling here, naked, on the floor either. As he looked at House inspiration came to him.

"House, you need to do what I say right? I want you to get up on the bed, lie down on your stomach and stay here while I go call Cuddy, don't move." He'd put a slight edge in his voice, trying to ensure obedience. He'd tried taking a firm line with House before, but it had never worked, just resulted in House mocking him. This time though House got up off his knees and laid down on the bed, lying face down and spreading his arms and legs slightly apart, head down.

Wilson felt a flash of triumph until he recognised the position House had adopted. House was waiting for someone to secure him in a spreadeagled position on the bed. For _Wilson_ to do it. Wilson shuddered but managed to keep his voice steady. "That's good House, don't move until I come back."

* * *

Cuddy was sceptical and protesting but Wilson managed to persuade her to come, and bring medical supplies, including a blood draw kit. He had to find out what drugs House had taken, _something_ must be causing this reaction. While he was waiting for Cuddy he hovered in the bedroom door but didn't go in, and didn't talk further to House. He wanted to keep him calm so they could treat him, and trying to talk him out of his delusions had only served to agitate him. It seemed wrong to leave him like this, to leave that damned collar around his neck, but at least he was lying still, not aggravating the cuts on his back. He was so still that he could almost be asleep if it was not for the fine tremor that shook his body several times while Wilson watched. House was scared. And that was something that Wilson had rarely seen, if ever.

When Cuddy arrived Wilson had a few quick words to her in the living area.

"He thinks he's a slave, and I'm...I guess he thinks I'm his 'master'. He has a collar around his neck, and there's a tag on it that says 'James Wilson'." Cuddy's lips turned up in a smile and Wilson shook his head impatiently. "it's not funny Cuddy, somebody has beaten him, flogged him with a whip. There are welts all over his back."

"And you called me instead of an ambulance?" Cuddy stepped past him and into the bedroom before Wilson could stop her.

"House!" She went around to his side and he looked up at her, his trembling increasing. There was fear in his eyes as Cuddy came closer.

"Come to see the damage first hand? You're usually more squeamish than that." The tremor in his voice belied the bravado of his words. She put a hand out to touch him and he shied back before settling back into position.

"House..." Cuddy looked at Wilson who shrugged, he had no answers either.

"Let's get him cleaned up first. Then we can worry about..." her eyes settled on the collar around House's neck.

Cuddy sat on the edge of the bed, getting the supplies out of the bag she had brought with her.

"This is going to hurt, House. But a lot less than getting someone to do this to you."

"Cuddy..." Wilson didn't want her lecturing House, something was obviously really wrong here. However reckless House could be Wilson couldn't see him consenting to this.

Cuddy didn't say anything more, bending over House's back to start cleaning the wounds. House hissed as the cold antiseptic cream touched the weals but otherwise held still. Suddenly Cuddy's hands stilled.

"What..." she looked up at Wilson.

"What, what is it?"

"He's covered in scars, they're hard to see because of all this new damage, but he has lash marks all across his back, and his shoulders. Some of these are years old but there are some that are fresher. He must have been doing this for years."

Wilson came forward to have a closer look and could see Cuddy was right, now he knew what to look for he could see all the old scars. He stepped back, shaking his head.

"B..b...but that's n...not..." his childhood stutter was back and he slowed himself down, curling his hands into fists by his side. "I gave him a full exam him a couple of months ago, there's no way I could have missed seeing all that on his back."

A sudden thought struck him and he reached for House's hand, the one that he had smashed with a pestle just the year before, the finger had healed slightly crooked. This finger was straight.

"This isn't House."

Once he started seeing the differences he couldn't stop. This guy was thinner than House, his arms less muscled, his hair was shorter and tidier than it was this morning, ditto the scruff on his chin.

But yet for all the physical differences this _wa_ _s_ House. His voice, his attitude, all the things that made a person were House. Wilson paced the room while Cuddy kept cleaning the guy's back. Blue eyes followed him warily around the room.

"What is your name?" He asked the guy, he needed to be able to call him something.

Something flickered in the man's eyes and then a blank look came over his face.

"Whatever you want it to be," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any expression.

Wilson stared at him and the man swallowed heavily.

"I don't know what sort of game this it. But you're in charge, the tag on my collar says so. So if you don't want me to be Greg House then okay. Who do you want me to be? Steffan, your bath boy?"

There was that odd mixture of bravado and fear again. The man was afraid, afraid of him, afraid of Cuddy, he really did believe he was a slave and they could do anything they liked to him.

"Look," Wilson hesitated, and then settled on Greg, "look Greg, I don't know what's going on, but you're not Greg House. You're not my slave, slaves haven't been legal in America for one hundred and fifty years. I don't know how you got into House's apartment, or what you're doing with that collar, or even why you look so much like him..."

"Wilson," Cuddy interrupted. She'd finished with putting antiseptic cream on Greg's back and had started to examine the rest of the naked man. "Look, he has House's scar."

Strangely enough Greg tried to pull the leg away, he'd suffered through her ministrations to his back but now tried to hide the massive scar on his thigh. His moving around seemed to set off the pain of his wounds again and he gasped in agony.

Cuddy rummaged around in her bag of supplies and found a syringe and a small vial of morphine. She smoothly injected the morphine into Greg while he watched with wide pain filled eyes.

As the drug took effect he looked at her dopily and she got up from the bed and arranged the sheet around his lower half, leaving his treated back open to the air.

"Sleep for a while Greg, we'll figure this out when you wake up."

* * *

As Greg dropped off into a doped sleep Cuddy cleaned up the medical supplies.

"Why did you knock him out? We need to find out who he is, what's going on." Wilson started pacing again, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. There was something very strange about all this, and now the answer to it was sound asleep.

"First of all because he was in pain, and exhausted. Second because it gives us a bit of time, and a chance to have a good look at him." Cuddy said cooly. She'd finished the clean up and now she sat down on the bed and put a hand out to touch the collar.

"There's no lock on this, no fastening, no emergency release, nothing. It's like it was welded on. And look," she pushed the collar up on his throat slightly, it was snug around his neck but not tight, there was a little play. "Look at the skin underneath, the callouses, he's been wearing this thing for a long time."

Greg stirred a little in his sleep as she touched the collar and she sat back.

"So, he looks almost exactly like House, right down to having had an infarction, but has been wearing a collar for years and has hundreds of old lash scars."

"And he thinks he's a slave, and I'm his 'master' or something," Wilson finished. "What the hell is going on Cuddy? House doesn't have a twin brother, and even if he did he'd hardly have an infarction at the same site."

Cuddy reached back into her bag and took out the blood draw kit.

"We'll take some blood, run a DNA test and a tox screen. We have a record of House's DNA at the hospital.."

"Why..." Wilson started to say but Cuddy waved him away.

"Don't ask, believe me you don't want to know, but I thought it would be a good idea to keep it on file. We can see if 'Greg' here really is House."

"And if he is? But he's not _our_ House?"

"You've seen enough science fiction movies with him to know the answer to that Wilson. If his DNA is the same, well, he must be here from some alternative universe. As crazy as that sound. Some place where they keep slaves, and Greg House is one of them. I wonder how _that_ came about."

"You're talking like you believe this Cuddy, it's...it's..."

"The only possible explanation."


	2. Chapter 2

Greg woke up slowly, the pain that radiated across his back pulling him up from a sound sleep. He felt the soft bed beneath him, the sheet over him, the warmth of this bedroom. So different from how he would normally be treated after a whipping. Normally he was shackled. spreadeagled, to a bed in the slave ward, face down, naked. No pain relief for two days. By the end of the two days the agony of his leg was usually drowning out the pain from the whip marks. Now a dose of, he presumes, morphine, is taking the edge off both sources of pain.

He laid still as he gathered his strength and thought about the confusing events of the day. He didn't even remember coming here to this apartment. One moment he was lying in the slave ward, in agony, the next he was here with Wilson. He must have been drugged for the journey.

He didn't know what sort of game Cuddy and Wilson were playing. Wilson he could understand, maybe the guy got his kicks from pretending that he wasn't a slave for a while, whatever, but Cuddy...she was normally all business around him. Since his early days at PPTH she'd always discouraged any personal contact, anything that wasn't purely business. Greg was well aware of the rumours around that she had bought him as a 'personal slave' - those had mostly faded now, if it were true she'd have long since tagged him, but Cuddy was still careful of her reputation. Cuddy wouldn't willingly get involved in kinky sex games with Wilson and her hospital's valuable slave.

He looked cautiously around the room but he seemed to be alone, although he could hear faint noises coming from the rest of the house. Carefully he eased himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The pain slammed into him again but he ignored it. He might not have long and he wanted to see if there was anything he could use in this room. A slave should never miss an opportunity to pick up whatever they could find. He knew the slaves in the hospital basement had a network that pilfered small objects from anywhere in the hospital they had access to, but he stayed out of that as much as he could. He mostly took things he could use himself.

It was a man's bedroom, that much he could tell, there was no sign of a feminine presence at all. Clothes and books were strewn untidily around the room, the sign of someone who had plentiful possessions. Greg had only a handful, a few trinkets carefully hidden away over the years. Everything else of his had been taken when he was enslaved.

He reached over and examined the bedside table, quietly easing the drawer of the table open.

There were two vials of Vicodin inside, both open. He took one and hid it underneath the pillow on the bed, if Wilson let him have clothes at some stage he'd try and pick the bottle up and hide it, Wilson had never had him searched when he was returned to the hospital. He rooted through the rest of the drawer and found nothing of interest until he turned over a creased photo.

It was a photo of him, as a child, with his Mom. His Dad had been in the photo he remembered, but he'd carefully cut the photo in half to erase his presence when he'd left home. He'd had this photo once, but he hadn't seen it in years, not since it was no doubt seized alone with the rest of his possessions when he was enslaved. How had Wilson gotten hold of it and planted it here? And why?

He looked through the drawer again and found another photo, this one also crumpled.

Stacy and himself, smiling at the camera.

He wasn't wearing a collar.

* * *

Cuddy had returned to the hospital with the sample of Greg's blood and Wilson had spent the last hour cleaning the apartment. The state of the place was a clear sign of House's deterioration since he'd sent Stacy away a few weeks ago. The apartment wasn't usually spotless but neither did it usually have the signs of neglect it had now. Wilson used the cleaning to distract himself from the problem of the man in House's bedroom. He didn't want to go in there, didn't want to see this stranger with his friend's face, see that collar around his neck, the tag hanging from it like a dog tag. His name on the tag.

Cuddy's theory was outrageous, this was real life not some stupid science fiction show on television. Sure, Wilson had seen that Star Trek episode where they ended up in a parallel dimension where everyone was evil - everybody had. But 'Greg' wasn't from a different reality where there were still slaves, there had to be another explanation.

He froze as he heard a noise from the bedroom, just a small scuffle of feet on the floor. He started to go towards the bedroom and then froze. He didn't know this man, this strange man he was in this apartment with, alone. Granted the man was naked and in pain but this whole situation was weird and Wilson felt his heart hammering.

His indecision was rendered moot by Greg coming out of the bedroom, still naked except for that damned collar around his neck. He had a photo clutched in one hand.

"Greg, go back to the bedroom." Wilson ordered, trying to sound authoritative. If Greg was a slave then surely he would obey?

"I want to know what's going on. This photo of Stacy, I'm not wearing my collar. And the photo of my mom and dad..."

"Go back to the bedroom and I'll explain."

"No."

Wilson was surprised. If Greg was indeed a slave, and Wilson was beginning to accept that he was, shouldn't he be obedient? He rubbed the back of his neck, stalling for time and then looked closer at Greg. Although he was trying to present an air of bravado Wilson could see that he was shaking with a fine tremor and when Wilson stepped towards him he flinched. He was afraid.

"Look, I'll try and explain, but will you go and put some clothes on at least?" Wilson said, trying for an easy and relaxed manner to put the other man at ease. "It's a bit difficult trying to talk to you while you're naked."

Greg looked down at himself and shrugged.

"You usually like it when I'm naked. So you can salivate all over my scar."

"I'm not...I'm not like that," Wilson said weakly. "I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to put some clothes on. Please? Take what you want from the wardrobe, and then why don't you come and have something to eat and drink. We can talk."

Greg looked at him again and slowly nodded. He turned and went back into the bedroom without another word. At the door he paused and then shut it behind him.

Wilson sighed, debating whether to go and open the door so he could keep an eye on Greg but decided to let it go. He went back to the kitchen to get a quick meal together.

* * *

Wilson was just finishing plating up some eggs on toast - there wasn't much to work with in House's kitchen - when Greg emerged. He was wearing a pair of House's jeans and one of his long loose shirts. He would probably have been better off without a shirt on considering the state of his back but Wilson couldn't blame him for wanting to cover up. He had on a pair of House's Nikes and had found a cane.

He gave Greg a plate and pointed him to the living room, House not having anything as sophisticated as a kitchen table to eat at. He followed behind him but nearly ran into Greg when he stopped abruptly at the entrance to the living room.

Wilson moved around him and followed Greg's gaze, he was staring straight at House's baby grand piano.

"House bought that a few years ago, when he was living with Stacy. Nobody else is allowed to touch it."

"Of course not. I was the same with mine, before...I haven't played a piano in years." Wilson had the feeling that if it wasn't for the plate in one hand and the cane in the other Greg would be straight over there. House was absolutely passionate about his music, and it seemed Greg was the same - his eyes roved over the guitars displayed on the walls, fingers twitching by his side. Then he looked around at the bookcases crammed with House's eclectic library, wandering over to examine the spines of a few.

"Recognise anything?"

"Yes. I had some of these once."

"Not any more?"

"Slaves don't own anything." Greg said flatly, his expression closed off again.

Wilson sighed, there was so much ground to cover, with this stranger who looked so much like his friend.

"Sit down and eat while it's hot," he urged and Greg took a seat on the couch, perched uneasily on the edge, not allowing his back to rest against it. He flinched slightly when Wilson sat down beside him. Wilson wished that they were settling down for an evening of watching mindless television rather than dealing with this, whatever this was.

He quickly explained Cuddy's theory of parallel universes to Greg, expecting scepticism, disbelief and protest, but instead Greg just nodded as he ate his food.

"Okay."

"That's all you have to say - okay?"

"You say that there aren't slaves here, and that I'm not a slave?"

"That's right, we don't keep slaves, that's barbaric! Greg House is not a slave."

"Then, fine. Great. It's not like I'm going to argue with you. I'm not a masochist, however much you would like to be one."

" _I_ don't want you to be a..." Wilson sighed, "Never mind. Do you believe me?"

"It's a theory," Greg shrugged, "doesn't matter if I believe it or not. It will do until something better comes along. So what happens now?"

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, truthfully he had no idea what he should do. Even if Cuddy's theory was right and Greg was from a parallel universe it wasn't like he knew how to return him to where he belonged.

"Well, Cuddy is running your blood at the hospital, seeing if there are any answers there."

"Do I... do I work at the hospital? Princeton-Plainsboro?" Greg stopped eating and looking at him intensely.

"Yes, you're head of the Diagnostic Department there. Well, really you _are_ the department, you have three fellows who work for you. House has three fellows I mean. I guess, well, I guess you're not a Department head are you? What do you do? Besides being a …" Wilson trailed off, not wanting to say the word.

"I have three fellows, but I'm not so much the Head of the department, but I belong to the Department, a bit like the photocopier."

Wilson thought Greg was deliberately trying to shock him, but he seemed serious. Wilson was appalled at the idea that other people thought of him, that _he_ thought of _himself_ as merely another piece of hospital equipment. He was also impressed that, despite this, despite the collar around his neck, Greg was still doing the same work as he did as a free man in this universe. How much harder must it be for him to mentor three fellows, and cure his patients with the liability of also being considered a slave, a piece of property?

"Cuddy set it up so that I have firing and hiring privileges other my fellows, and they're not allowed to screw me." Greg continued. "Mostly I don't get punished for their or my medical mistakes either."

Wilson blinked at the mention of 'punishment' even though he shouldn't have been surprised, there _were_ the lash marks on Greg's back after all, and the scars of many previous ones. The implication that people who _weren't_ Greg's fellows were allowed to 'screw him' sent a chill up his spine. The sight of that damned tag hanging from Greg's collar, with his name on it, did that mean...

He swallowed heavily and walled that off in his mind, going back to a somewhat safer subject.

"Cuddy hired you?"

"Cuddy _bought_ me," Greg corrected him, "on behalf of the hospital. Doing that and setting up diagnostics was her big career move, she went from being a junior administrator to Dean of Medicine in a couple of years."

"And you've been there ever since?"

"Yes," was all that Greg said but Wilson saw the look in his eyes, those years since hadn't been easy for Greg, not in any way.

They were interrupted by a quick knock on the door and Wilson got up to let Cuddy in. She sat down in a chair, looking over at Greg.

"How are you doing, Greg?"

Greg shrugged. "Okay."

"Has Wilson explained our theory?"

"Yep."

Cuddy looked at Wilson with puzzlement and he shrugged.

"Greg's fine with whatever we come up with, as long as it means he isn't a slave here, I think."

"Well, his DNA checks out - he's Greg House, also the tox screen shows no painkillers of any sort, no Vicodin, no alcohol, no LSD."

That news, more than anything else that had occurred, convinced Wilson. House had spent all day with a severe migraine - his blood would be saturated with drugs of all kinds - and there wasn't a moment of any day when he didn't have plenty of Vicodin in his bloodstream.

"So, if we're going with the alternative universe theory, we need to figure out a way to return Greg to where he belongs and get our House back," Wilson mused aloud. There was a clatter as Greg dropped his plate and stood up, grabbing his cane. "Greg, what...where do you think you're going?"

"Wilson, think about what you just said. Greg doesn't _want_ to go back - do you, Greg? Can you blame him? You've seen the marks on him, the damage they've done to him."

"But we need to get House back!" Wilson protested."Look, Greg, sit down. I don't know how to reverse whatever this is, and nobody is going to make you do what you don't want to do."

"If I go back I'm due another fifty lashes." Greg said flatly, still holding his cane in front of him.

Wilson felt sick as he thought about it, another fifty lashes on top of the raw bleeding cuts he'd seen tonight. What sort of people were their counterparts that they would do this? What had Greg done to deserve that sort of sentence?

"That's not going to happen," he told Greg. "Even if we did know how to send you back we wouldn't, not to face that, not to be a slave. Now please, sit down."

"While I was at the hospital I picked up a portable cutter, I can get that collar off you." Cuddy offered, her focus darting between Wilson and Greg. She held up the small gadget and House's eyes widened.

"If we take that off, and he goes back..." Wilson protested, "he could get into more trouble. Greg, maybe you should wait..."

Greg looked at him and then back at the cutter. He sank to his knees in the space next to the coffee table. "Take it off," he asked, "please."

"What will happen if you, I don't know, if you wake up back in your universe and you don't have your collar on?"

Greg wasn't looking at either of them, just kneeling, hands behind his back, head bowed, knees slightly apart. Something in Wilson twitched at the sight of someone who looked so like his larger-than-life friend kneeling submissively in front of him.

"Sixteen years." Greg said quietly, still looking at the floor.

"What? Sixteen years what?"

"I've been wearing this collar for sixteen years. Please...please..if you can...please t..t..take it off."

"You heard the man Wilson, it's coming off. Or don't you want me to? Do you want him to have your collar on him?"

"No! I just don't want him to get hurt, when he goes back."

"I don't care, just take it off," Greg said again, glancing up at them, "please."

Cuddy knelt down besides Greg, threading a protective cloth between his skin and the collar, there wasn't much room but she didn't want to burn his flesh accidentally.

"You need to hold very still Greg, while I'm doing this."

Cuddy turned on the cutter and slowly began to cut through the steel collar. She worked very carefully, almost holding her breath, Wilson watched her intently while Greg held almost inhumanly still - something that Wilson thought that House would be incapable of doing.

Finally Cuddy had cut through the collar and she gently removed the pieces - handing them off to Wilson.

"Okay, it's off Greg," she said softly. "It's gone."

He put his head up, slowly moving it from side to side.

"Can I...do you have a mirror?" he asked. Cuddy fished in her bag and produced one and he stared at himself. His fingers moved up to feel the naked flesh of his throat. There were callouses all around the area, red patches, and where it wasn't red the skin was very pale. Greg turned to her and she could see a fine sheen of moisture in his eyes.

"Thank you."

Cuddy swallowed the lump in her own throat.

"You're welcome Greg, and I'm sorry you ever had to wear that," she pointed at the remnants of the collar in Wilson's hands.

Wilson turned the collar over, feeling the four rings set in its cold surface. From one of them the shiny tag still dangled. The tag with his name on it. _No_ , he reminded himself, _not_ _my_ _name_ _,_ _someone_ _who_ _looks_ _like_ _me_ _but_ _isn_ _'_ _t_ _._ _Someone_ _who_ _thinks_ _it_ _'_ _s_ _okay_ _to_ _keep_ _slaves_ _,_ _and_ _put_ _tags_ _on_ _them_ _like_ _they_ _are_ _household_ _pets_ _._ Nauseated, he dropped the collar to the floor.

Greg stood up, seeming to stand taller with the collar off. He reached for his cane.

"Okay, have a nice life - I'm off."


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy and Wilson both shot to their feet in alarm.

"No Greg, you can't go," Cuddy said, reaching out to him, her fingers brushing his arm before he jerked away.

"Why not? I'm not a slave anymore, right? I can do what I want." Underneath his defiant words Cuddy detected a trace of apprehension, of doubt. Greg had said he'd been a slave for sixteen years, now he was trying to walk out the door, into an unknown world, alone. She marshalled her thoughts and presented them logically, House had usually responded to a well reasoned argument, maybe Greg would too.

"Well, for one thing it's the middle of the night. Where would you go? You don't know anyone, you don't have any money, and you're still in a lot of pain. Why don't you stay here, at least for tonight and get some rest? We can treat your back again, and give you another shot."

Greg looked at them both and then back at the door. Wilson could see how exhausted and pained he was, adrenaline had sustained him until now, but now his face was grey, the lines in it deeply drawn.

'What have you got to lose by staying the night, Greg?" He asked, trying to sound reassuring. "No need to make decisions now, we can discuss it tomorrow."

"If I stay here I might wake up...back there." Greg lifted his chin, his tone brusque but they could both hear the fear in his words.

"We don't know how you got here, we have no idea how you would ever get back - you could just as easily go back if you sleep the night in some seedy hotel, or under a bridge. Might as well enjoy it while you can." Wilson shrugged. "Or you could come back to my place, I'm staying in a hotel at the moment."

"No." Greg said firmly. "Not the hotel, I've seen enough of that."

Wilson wondered again just what was between his counter-part in that other world and Greg. If Greg belonged to the other Wilson, did he take him back to his hotel room every night? It sounded like he might, but why would Greg have had enough of it? One thing seemed certain, Greg and the other Wilson had a very different relationship to the one he had with House. Wilson both wanted to know all about it, and wanted to know nothing about it.

Greg took one more step towards the door and then seemed to sag, leaning heavily on his cane, head hanging down, the events of the day finally catching up to him. He turned to face them.

"I'll stay here, just for tonight."

"Good." Wilson said, "Go and lie down on the bed, I'll come and treat your back and then I'll give you something for the pain."

Greg shot a look at him, and then at Cuddy. His message was clear.

"Wilson, why don't you clean up out here and I'll see to Greg?" Cuddy said diplomatically.

Wilson sighed, he felt that he was getting the blame for something that the other Wilson had done - and he didn't like it. However it would be silly to stand around arguing over who got the privilege of putting ointment on Greg's ravaged back so he nodded and started picking up plates.

* * *

"He's out for the count. I gave him enough so that he should sleep until morning."

Cuddy came back into the living room and settled herself on the couch, Wilson sitting beside her.

"This is crazy, Cuddy, you know that. How are we going to get House - _our_ House, back? "

She buried her head in her hands.

"I don't think we can, or at least nothing we can do will make a difference. This isn't one of House's crappy sci-fi movies - neither of us can whip up a 'parallel universe transfer device'. We haven't got the faintest idea how this happened."

"House is stuck in that...in that vile place where they'll think he's a slave. Greg said he's due another fifty lashes. That will be House getting those lashes. We can't just...leave him there."

"So you want to send Greg back there instead?"

"Better Greg than House, at least he's used to it!" Wilson blurted out and then looked down at the floor, ashamed of his outburst.

"Look, Wilson, we don't know for sure where our House is. Maybe instead of a straight exchange this is more of a 'slide one place over' thing - he might be in a different universe altogether. Or if he is there - well they should be able to figure it out just like we did. They'll know as soon as they examine him that he's not their 'Greg'. They'll know he's not a slave. He'll be okay."

"How can you..."

"I can say it because I have to. There's _nothing I can do about it_. There's nothing you can do either. I need to believe he'll be okay. I suggest you try and believe it too. In the meantime I think we have a duty of care for that man in there, none of this was his choice." Cuddy stood up, "I've got to get at least _some_ sleep tonight. You'll stay and keep an eye on him?"

"Yes, better put us both down for sick days tomorrow - if he's still here."

Wilson walked Cuddy to the door and then she stopped and turned around, hugging him suddenly. Wilson returned her embrace.

"I just...I'm going to miss him, Cuddy - he doesn't deserve this." Wilson felt tears prickling at his eyes and blinked them back.

"I know James, I'll miss him too - crazy bastard that he is."

* * *

Greg woke up slowly, the morphine still fogging his brain. At first he couldn't work out why he was in a strange bed, not in his cubby hole at the back of diagnostics, or in Wilson's sterile hotel room. He felt the lack of that cold pressure around his throat that had been there so long. No collar. His heart jumped in alarm but then he remembered. Not a slave. Not there, not anymore.

He sat up and looked around. There was light coming in through the window so quite late, not his usual four o'clock awakening. Mentally he took stock, back felt, well, very sore but not excruciating. The whip bruised as well as cut and every movement was accompanied by a stab of pain but nothing he couldn't tolerate. Much better than it usually felt a couple of days after a severe whipping. The treatment this time had probably helped, not to mention the painkillers - he usually got neither.

He was dressed in a pair of sweatpants, and was bare chested. He got up and found the shirt he'd worn yesterday and slipped that on, it brushed uncomfortable against the welts and bruises on his back but it was better that than walking around half naked.

In the bathroom he examined himself in the mirror. He hadn't been to the groomers this week so he was in need of a shave but he hardly noticed that, the most noticeable thing was the lack of a collar. He'd avoided mirrors as much as he could over the last sixteen years because he hated the sight of the thing. Seeing it always reminded him of the moment it closed around his throat for the first time, and where he was when it was done. The Slave Administration Centre, where they quickly and efficiently turned him from Doctor Gregory House to Greg, the slave. He'd regained little bits of himself over the years but nothing could replace what was taken from him there. He'd never get that back.

He wasn't surprised to find Wilson still in the apartment. Wilson had said he lived in a hotel, but from the way he'd moved around the apartment yesterday, as if were his own, he probably spent a lot of time here. The man was poking around in the cupboards, probably looking for food or something. Wilson in his own universe was obsessed with feeding Greg, Greg sometimes wondered if he was fattening him up for the slaughter.

Wilson turned around as he entered, his face a question, his eyes almost hopeful but he didn't speak.

"I didn't change places with your guy in the night, sorry to disappoint you."

Wilson looked embarrassed, one hand going to rub the back of his neck.

"It's not that I wanted you to go back, but, well, House is my friend, we've been friends for a long time. I don't want to lose him. You, well, you look like him..."

"But I'm not him, I get it."

"We're not friends are we? Back in your universe?"

Greg laughed, a flat humourless sound. "Slaves don't have 'friends'."

Wilson looked at him and then shook his head.

"I shouldn't have asked, I'm sorry."

The man actually looked upset, at what exactly Greg wasn't sure and didn't care. He wondered if there was going to be any food produced any time soon. Wilson seemed to read his mind, slamming the last cupboard door shut.

"There's nothing edible here. I swear House lives on coffee and Vicodin."

"Coffee and Vicodin, sounds yummy."

"You would say that," Wilson retorted, straightening up and facing him, then a flash of uncertainty crossed his face, "are you on Vicodin?"

"Used to be, then methadone, now I'm on Oxycontin. Your morphine was tasty though. If you've got more of that I'll take it."

"Well, I haven't got any Oxy on me so you'll have to make do with Vicodin, knowing House there's plenty around. No more morphine, sorry."

Greg shrugged, he had one vial of Vicodin in his pants pocket, the other tucked away in a hiding place, he was good to go for a while, and this Wilson looked like a soft touch for more.

"We'll go out and get some breakfast, I'll see to your back first though. Go and lie down, take your shirt off and I'll get the stuff."

Greg took a step back, reluctant to let Wilson touch him. He needed to establish some independence early on here, this Wilson seemed affable enough, but the Wilson back in his universe loved touching Greg, and drinking in his pain. When Greg was being whipped he knew Wilson was there, watching, getting excited, getting off on his punishment, his pain.

"Greg, I'm not going to hurt you. Whatever the other Wilson did to you, _I_ _'_ _m_ _not_ _him_. I'm a doctor, I can treat your back so it gives you less pain, and so that it doesn't get infected. Please give me a chance to show you that I'm different. Any time you want me to stop you just say the word."

"Cuddy can do it."

"She's not here, and what makes her so great anyway? You said she's the one who bought you for the hospital," Wilson tripped over the word 'bought', it seemed so bizarre to apply that concept to Greg.

Greg lifted his chin, almost defiantly. "Cuddy did buy me for the hospital. She knew how good I was, and that I could make her little hospital world famous, and take her along for the ride. Her only interest in me is how well I do my job, and how much money and prestige I bring to her and her hospital. She doesn't play games, or take me back to her hotel room at night, or stalk me and tell me how much she enjoys my pain, or pretend to be..." he stopped suddenly, looking away from Wilson. Wilson saw him swallow hard and then he looked back, his eyes bleak, "I know where I stand with Cuddy - she'd never do anything to harm me, well except for the whipping, she's pretty okay with ordering those."

"It was Cuddy who ordered your whipping?"

"Yes, she has to sign off on all my punishments. She never comes to watch though, I think she's a bit squeamish."

"Why...what did you do...I mean, fifty lashes you said, that seems like a lot."

"One hundred - the rest were to be today. And she had me down for six hundred to start with, so I guess one hundred isn't too bad."

"But what..."

"Does it matter? Why do you want to hear all the gory details if you're not like _my_ Wilson?"

"I don't." Wilson denied hurriedly, "but I just thought, if we knew what was happening when you were swapped..."

"Nice try, but even if that is the reason I already told you I'm not interested in finding out what happened or how to reverse it." Greg smiled, showing all his teeth but there was no humour in his eyes, "I like it here."

Wilson turned away, hiding his face from Greg, he leaned on the kitchen counter, head bowed. After a minute he straightened and turned to face Greg again.

"You're a lot like him, you know?"

"Sort of an asshole?" Greg asked, a flicker of genuine humour in his expression this time.

"Yeah," was all Wilson said.

"Nice to know," Greg said, and meant it. Over the last sixteen years of his existence as a slave he'd often been afraid he was losing himself, the essential parts of his personality that made him Greg House. He'd fought to keep as much of that he could, while the misery of his day to day life wore it away. It was good to have some affirmation that the slave Greg didn't appear on the surface to be much different to the free man House.

"So, are you going to do my back or are we going to keep bonding like this?" Greg asked when Wilson didn't say anything more. He still didn't trust the guy but he did need to be in as good a shape as possible, for whatever might come up, and there was no-one else around.

"Go and lie down and I'll get the supplies."

Wilson applied ointment to Greg's back, careful to keep his touch cool and professional. The cuts were beginning to scab over, some would undoubtedly leave scars, to add to Greg's massive collection. Wilson could see them better now, faint lines all over Greg's back and shoulders but away from the kidney area. A professional had done this, someone who knew how to inflict the maximum amount of pain without endangering their victim. This other universe probably had people who specialised in it. Wilson tried to envisage the scene as Greg was whipped fifty times, was he crying in pain, trying to escape? He would have been bound, fastened to a whipping post, unable to move. Had that other Wilson watched? Had he watched this terrible thing happening to Greg and done nothing to prevent it. Even worse had he _enjoyed_ it? Greg had said that the other Wilson enjoyed Greg's pain.

Wilson had seen House in pain many times, most noticeably during the infarction and its aftermath. Then there had been the detox last year, House had been in so much pain he'd smashed his own finger to try and control it. Wilson didn't _enjoy_ House's pain, he did what he could to help, including prescribing the pills that would one day kill his friend. He liked being able to help, to provide assistance to House when he needed it, there was nothing wrong with that. He was nothing like that other Wilson, the one who'd put that tag on Greg's collar.

He realised suddenly that he had stopped applying the cream and was just staring at Greg's back. As he watched he saw a slight tremble pass through the man. He was scared. Scared of Wilson. Of what Wilson might do while he was vulnerable like this.

Wilson quickly finished the job and went into the bathroom to wash his hands. By the time he got back Greg was sitting up, still bare chested, blue eyes warily watching him.

"Did you find any of House's Vicodin?" Wilson asked, trying to keep his tone light.

Greg nodded. "What schedule is he on?"

Wilson laughed hollowly. "House doesn't exactly have a schedule, he takes them when he wants them."

"He's an addict?"

"Yes."

"Figures." Greg shrugged but didn't explain. He felt for the vial in his pocket, extracted it and popped the top off, quickly swallowing one of the pills before putting it away again. "You said we were going out?"At Wilson's nod he stood up, reaching for the wardrobe door. "I'll get changed."

When Wilson didn't move Greg looked at him pointedly. Finally Wilson got the hint and went out, shutting the door behind him. On the one hand he was annoyed at Greg making himself at home in House's apartment, taking stuff from House's wardrobe. On the other hand this man looked so much like House it was hard to deny him access to House's things. Wilson again felt a sharp pang of loss as he thought of his friend.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time in sixteen years Greg walked along a city street completely unrestrained. There were no cuffs on his hands, or shackles on his legs, no collar around his neck and, best of all, no leash. It was a cool day but he'd chosen clothes that left his neck exposed. The collar had left marks all around his throat but he didn't care, it was gone, that was all that mattered. He deliberately kept some distance between himself and Wilson, no longer forced to stay close by a leash.

He looked around curiously, he'd never been in this part of Princeton, hadn't really seen much of town at all. Even when he was with Stacy they had been circumspect, she'd taken him to relatively few public locations.

Now he looked around at the people passing by, at the shop fronts, at the cars. Maybe, if he stayed here a while, he could get a car, or a bike, so he could go places, _by himself_. His alter ego probably had a license, Greg could pass for him easily. He could get on a bike and just _go_. Anywhere. No-one could stop him, there were no slaves here. He could do as he pleased.

He suddenly realised he had stopped walking and was standing still, staring at the traffic, smiling. Wilson glanced back at him.

"Greg? Come on, it's just up here. Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." Greg said, starting to walk again.

"I guess this must be strange for you? Did you get out of the hospital much?"

"You used to like to take me back to your hotel room at night." Greg said flatly.

"Not me, remember? I'm not him."

"Yeah, you just look like him, talk like him and have the same job as him."

"And you look and talk just like House, but you're not him." Wilson snapped.

Greg nodded, that was true, House had been free all his life, House was Wilson's friend, Greg wasn't House.

He heard Wilson sigh and then do that neck rubbing thing again before he stopped in front of a diner.

"House likes this place for breakfast."

"Okay. You'll have to pay, I don't have any money."

"What else is new." Wilson muttered and Greg quirked a smile, he might not be House but the more he heard about him the more he liked him.

* * *

The diner was busy with the morning trade, it was noisy and there seemed to be a constant stream of people past their table. One large man brushed past Greg, accidentally elbowing the back of his head. The man turned back to apologize and as Wilson watched Greg tucked in his head, looked down at the table and seemed to make himself as small as possible. The man just shrugged and walked away.

"It was just an accident," Wilson tried to reassure Greg. "He didn't mean to hurt you." He'd never seen House like this, sitting huddled on a chair, scared. House would have made some snarky comment to the guy, or even waved his cane at him.

Greg looked back at him and then away. He didn't say anything.

"I guess... you don't normally get to eat out?" Wilson asked, floundering a bit for conversation with this stranger and returning to the earlier topic. He wanted to find out more about what life was like in the other universe, but Greg seemed to be reluctant to answer questions about it.

Greg looked back at him, and bared his teeth in what Wilson supposed was meant to be a smile.

"No, they normally keep me in a cage and just bring me out when they want me."

Wilson stared at him in shock, and then disbelief.

"Seriously?"

Greg gave a dry bark of a laugh.

"No."

Wilson glared at him, annoyed. Greg was as frustrating as House in his own way, Wilson could rarely get a straight answer out of House either.

Greg shifted in his chair and went back to looking at the menu, his gaze dropping from Wilson's.

Wilson sighed and signalled a waitress over, it was going to be a long day at this rate. He hoped that in time, if there was time, Greg would relax a bit and realise that Wilson _wasn't_ going to hurt him.

* * *

Greg was clearly having a difficult time with the pain after breakfast and during the short walk back to the apartment. His steps became slower, shorter and more unsteady. With the shirt Greg had on hiding the damage to his back Wilson had forgotten just how badly he was injured. Greg would probably have been better served by staying in the apartment, although he had seemed to enjoy the outing.

Greg made no move to take another Vicodin, although Wilson knew he had the vial on him. He just put his head down and limped along with no complaint. Once they were safely inside the apartment Wilson put a hand out and tried to steer Greg back towards the bedroom. Greg flinched away and Wilson let go.

"Just go and lie down, I'll treat your back again. You should probably try and lie down for the remainder of the day, give your back a chance to heal."

Greg gave him a blank look but then he went off towards the bedroom, removing his shirt and lying down without complaint.

Wilson put on some gloves and fetched the ointment. He examined the marks on Greg's back. They were dotted with blood but were clearly beginning to heal, in a few weeks they would just be more thin pale scars on Greg's flesh, to add to the dozens already there. Wilson swallowed hard at the thought of Greg enduring this multiple times in the past but kept his voice steady as he reassured his patient.

"This is beginning to scab over, it looks like it's healing okay, no infection."

Greg didn't answer and Wilson finished off quickly. Greg sat up, leaving his shirt off until his back had a chance to dry.

"What do you want to do now?" Wilson asked. "Watch some television? Do you get to see much television, I mean...back in your..."

Greg ignored him, grabbing his cane and getting to his feet, limping slowly into the living area. When Wilson followed him Greg turned around.

"Why are you still here?"

"I...I'm looking after you..."

"Why? Don't you have to work? It's Friday isn't it? You work at the hospital. Why are you hanging around here. You don't live here."

"We thought, Cuddy and I thought, one of us should stay with you...it's going to be strange...you're not well..."

"Look, whatever you had going on with your 'House' I'm not interested. I'm not a slave here, remember? I can choose, and I _can say no_. So find someone else to fuck, or to give you blowjobs or whatever it is you're after. I'm not doing that anymore."

Wilson just stared at Greg, his mouth coming open in shock. He remembered the tag on Greg's collar, the shiny new tag with Wilson's name on it. Greg's words - _You used to like to take me back to your hotel room at night._ Greg's reluctance to go to Wilson's hotel, his obvious fear of Wilson, and his unwillingness to be touched by him. That other Wilson had used Greg for sex.

"House and I...we don't do...that. We're _just friends_. We've never...House is straight, _I'm straight_!"

"Then why are you hanging around? Why are you insisting on treating my back? Why did you let yourself into the apartment yesterday, it's clear that you're quite happy making yourself at home here. You like putting your hands all over me." Greg was trembling, his hand shaking on the cane, there was anger in his words but fear in his eyes.

"I don't...For God's sake Greg, I was just trying to _help_ you. Is that so wrong? I'm a doctor, I was _treating_ you. I don't want you...like that. Why would you even think that?" As he said it Wilson knew why Greg thought that, because the other Wilson _did_ want Greg like that. The other Wilson took Greg home to his hotel, and had sex with him, against Greg's will, and without his consent. Greg had to do what that other Wilson wanted because he was a slave – he had no choice. No wonder Greg was so wary around him.

Wilson had to get away, away from this stranger who looked like his friend, away from the fear the other man had for him, away from the pain in Greg's eyes. He started towards the door.

"You're right, I shouldn't be here. I should go to work. Just...do whatever you want for the rest of the day. I'll get Cuddy to come by and check on you tonight. I won't...I won't touch you again." He slipped out the door, trying to ignore the sight of Greg just standing there, in the middle of the room, looking at him.

He hurried to his car and got in, desperate to get away as quickly as possible.

Greg shut the door behind Wilson and looked around him. He was alone, he was alone in an apartment in Princeton. He was a free man. He could do anything he wanted.

The thought of such freedom overwhelmed him and he sank to the ground, staring at the riches around him.


	5. A Slave In the Mirror Chapter 5

Wilson almost ran to his car, his thoughts scrambling around helplessly in his head. All the little things that Greg had said since he'd met him, the fear, the shying away from his touch, it all made sense now. His alter ego, this _other Wilson_ had claimed Greg to be... what? His sex slave? Surely he must have seen Greg as something other than that. Greg said he still worked as a doctor, headed up the diagnostics department, had fellows. Surely the other Wilson would have seen Greg as something other than a warm body to have sex with?

His mind flashed him an image, House...no, _Greg_ on his knees in front of him, looking up, eyes pleading for this not to happen. To his horror Wilson felt himself start to harden, desperately he thought of something else, of the terrible wounds on Greg's back, the bruising, the marks around his throat where the collar had been...

He started the engine of the car, heart racing. It was too much, it was overwhelming. He just wanted House back, _his_ House. They could get some beer, watch some porn, kick back and relax. Sure, House had been having some problems since Stacy left but Wilson could have helped him with that, given him some advice to get him back on the right track. Now he was gone, and Greg was here – and Greg didn't want anything to do with him.

Wilson tightened his grip on the steering wheel, staring with concentration at the traffic. He'd go to the hospital, get some work done, clear his head. He wouldn't think of Greg, or House, or slaves or collars.

* * *

Of course as soon as Wilson entered the hospital Cuddy spotted him, staring at him from across the floor. She intercepted him on his way to the elevators.

"Wilson! You were supposed to stay with Greg? Did something happen, did he swap back?"

"No,no...he's still here."

"Then why are you here? Did you leave him alone?"

"Yes, he's at the apartment, he's fine. He'll probably like some time by himself. He doesn't need me there. He doesn't _want_ me there."

Cuddy looked at him sharply and frowned. She started to say something and then looked around at the crowded lobby area and steered Wilson into her office instead, shutting the door behind them. Waving him to the couch she took a seat next to him.

"So what happened? Clearly something did, to make you come running back here."

"I didn't come running back here, I had some work to do." Wilson's protests weren't very convincing and were even less so when he ran his hand through his hair in agitation.

"Come on Wilson, something's bothering you, you might as well tell me. You know I will get it out of you sooner or later."

Wilson groaned, and then sank back into the cushions.

"Greg said...he said that in his universe, the Wilson there used to...used to have sex with him – whether Greg wanted to or not, and I gather he didn't. He told me he wouldn't be do anything like that with me – as if I would want to!"

Cuddy waited for further revelations but it seemed that that was all Wilson had. She sighed to herself, it had been obvious to her, almost from the start that something had been between the two men in the other universe, she hadn't realised that Wilson was so clueless about it, or had he been in complete denial?

"Well, what did you think the tag meant on his collar, Wilson? Or the fact that he was so jumpy around you, didn't want you to touch him? Or when he said that 'you' used to take him back to 'your' hotel room at night. What did you think they were doing there - playing monopoly?"

Wilson looked at her, a wounded expression on his face.

"You knew? Cuddy..."

"Oh, I suspected, Wilson, I'm not blind, or stupid! Surely you've worked in enough emergency wards to recognise an abused person when you see them? Greg was giving off all the classic signs of a domestic abuse victim. And that's without that lovely tag with your name on it. He was a _slave_ Wilson, it's hardly surprising that he's been used for sex."

"But House and I...we've never...never even thought about it. Why would that Wilson want to have sex with Greg, I mean there must be female slaves..." Wilson shifted uncomfortably, realising that it sounded like he thought it would be okay if that other Wilson 'used' female slaves.

Privately Cuddy thought that even if Wilson had never thought about having sex with House (something that she doubted), that House had long entertained the idea. Stacy had even asked Cuddy when she came back if she thought there was something between the pair.

She wondered if her counterpart had also used Greg for her own purposes. Somehow she doubted it, Cuddy had always made it a rule never to get involved with her employees, and the other Cuddy would probably have the same rule. If you were a woman, and ambitious, it was always best to give the gossip mills as little fodder as possible. And Greg hadn't shied away from _her_ touch.

Still, the whole thing was obviously making Wilson very uncomfortable and both she and the hospital needed him functioning so she moved to reassure him.

"Don't forget, that other Wilson isn't you, any more than Greg is House. Their culture is obviously different. Maybe it's more accepted to have sex with slaves of the same sex, even if you don't normally lean that way. Maybe the female slaves aren't used like that, there'd be danger of pregnancy after all. I suppose if you really want to know you could ask Greg."

Wilson made a face. "Greg isn't exactly forthcoming on the subject. I don't think he wants to talk about it much."

"Can you blame him? I'd be wanting to forget it too. I don't think I'd want everyone to know exactly how I'd been treated, or mistreated – he probably only told you about the sexual abuse to make sure you didn't get the wrong idea." Cuddy looked thoughtful, "we may need to look at getting him some counselling at some stage."

"So, that's it then? We're just giving up on House and taking Greg in his place? Greg gets House's apartment, his money, his job? Convenient for you that we have a handy substitute." Wilson knew he sounded bitter, and he knew this situation wasn't Cuddy's fault but her calm acceptance of it was beginning to rankle him.

Cuddy stood up and moved to the desk, coming back with a file of notes. She thrust it at him.

"I've been making calls all morning. To House's cell phone, to all the hospitals in the area, to clinics, to the police, to anywhere and anyone that might have found House anywhere. In case he got shifted to somewhere else in our own universe, or hell, just took off – he wasn't exactly in a great state of mind during his last case. Nothing, no sign of him anywhere. We have to assume that he's ended up in a different universe, hopefully not Greg's."

Wilson looked at the notes, the lists of names Cuddy had called and slowly nodded. There wasn't much else he could suggest. They could go to the police he guessed, explain what they thought had happened, but even if the police believed them, which was highly doubtful, what would they do?

"We could contact someone in authority," Wilson suggested,"Someone in the government, maybe this sort of thing has happened before."

"I thought about it. But if, somehow, we manage to contact the right people, and they actually believe us – which is highly doubtful, where does that leave Greg?"

Wilson fell silent, he wanted to say it didn't matter, that their loyalty lay with House, not Greg but he remembered the fear on Greg's face when he'd confronted Wilson, the way he had flinched when the man jostled him in the diner, the look on his face when that collar had been cut off his neck. How could he be a part of taking Greg's new found freedom away from him?

"If they don't know how to send him back, they'll still know he doesn't belong here, he will have lost the identity he could have had, the life we could have given him." Cuddy continued, "and if they _do_ know how to send him back, well, we'll know what he's going back to."

Another fifty lashes, Wilson thought, more abuse, another collar put around his neck – and what would they do to him for 'losing' the other one. He closed his eyes, shuddering. Cuddy was right, he needed to accept that they couldn't do anything about this situation, other than care for the man who'd ended up with them.

"I told him that I'd be gone for the rest of the day, that you would go over there this evening," Wilson explained, "that I would stay away from him if that's what he wanted."

"Maybe you need a break anyway, why don't you go and check in with your department, do some work? Greg might appreciate some time alone to adjust."

Wilson got up, nodding. He didn't like the idea of Greg alone in House's apartment but it looked more and more likely that it would become _his_ apartment, one way or the other.

* * *

Greg sat on the floor for a while. The confrontation with Wilson had drained him. The surprise on Wilson's face, and then the shock, had been genuine. Wilson wasn't in a sexual relationship with this House fellow, although Greg still wasn't sure if he had ever wanted to be or not. He felt relieved that Wilson wouldn't immediately be trying anything on, but he knew better than to assume that would never change.

Now he stared out at the apartment, where he'd been left. All this had belonged to House, Greg wondered if it was too much to hope that it could now become his. Life had taught him that good things rarely happened, and that life had a way of kicking you in the teeth just when things were looking better. But by some miracle he was here, free, when just two days ago he'd been a naked shivering slave being shackled to a whipping post.

Eventually he levered himself back off the floor. His leg howled at him, finally making itself felt over the pain of his back, he figured that must mean his back was healing. He fingered the vial in his pocket. Vicodin. Taking it out he examined the label, prescribed by Doctor James Wilson, of course. Wilson knew that House was addicted, but apparently he still prescribed for him. The date on this label was recent, that must be one of the ways he tried to control House. Greg wondered if he'd keep prescribing now. He popped a pill out and swallowed it dry. It had been so long since he'd been in charge of his own medication. For years he'd had to rely on other people to give him his pain pills, or withhold them if they wished. He tucked the Vicodin away carefully.

He was drawn to the piano, another thing that had been denied him for years. For the first couple of years of his enslavement he'd played air piano when he couldn't sleep at night, or when he was scared, or when he was being punished. Then, after a time, he'd stopped doing it. There just hadn't seemed any point. It had become more painful to pretend he might have music again one day than to give it up.

Now he sat down in front of the instrument and gently pressed down middle C. The note rang out clear and true, this piano was cared for. He placed both hands on the keys and slowly picked out a scale, his fingering was slow, the once familiar motions now coming with hesitation. The notes sounded loud in the apartment and he took his hands away and looked around. No-one was here, no-one to tell him no, to drag him away. There might be neighbours though, listening, maybe they would complain to someone. It would be best if he kept a low profile, at least for now.

He got up from the piano and looked around, he'd already seen the books and the trinkets scattered around the room, some he even recognised. There were stacks of records and he went over to them and flipped through them. All his favourites. He'd sold a lot of his, to get money for gambling, drinking and for drugs. House had either never sold them or had built up his collection again, it was very impressive. He looked at the record player and fingered one of the records but then put it back. Another time maybe.

There was a television of course but that held little interest for him. He had long since lost touch with that sort of entertainment, his soaps and even sports events no longer seemed real to him. House had a large collection of movies on that new DVD format, and a large percentage of those were porn, all of the large breasted female variety he noted, examining the covers. He turned away, another thing he had no interest in.

He wandered into the kitchen. Wilson had said there was nothing there but he discovered a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread which didn't look too stale. He smiled as he made himself a peanut butter sandwich. He wasn't really hungry but it was good to be able to do it.

He passed the next couple of hours just drifting around the apartment, opening drawers, exploring cupboards, even poking his head into the hallway closet. House had so many possessions he couldn't even begin to examine them all. Hopefully he'd have many more opportunities to examine everything thoroughly. He found more Vicodin, so much that he started just leaving it where it was, in its hiding place. Obviously House had been worried about his supply running out, maybe Wilson had threatened to stop writing scrips for it.

At one stage he found House's wallet, hidden under a pile of journals on his bedside table. He flipped it open, examined the driver's license, and the various cards. There was only twenty five dollars in the wallet, not enough for any serious plans, but still more money than Greg had handled in a long time. He carefully hid the wallet away. If Wilson or Cuddy thought to look for it he'd just deny all knowledge. He thought about taking it and leaving, catching a bus out of town maybe, starting somewhere new. There was a credit card, he could use that, if it wasn't as overdrawn as his own had always been. He thought that maybe once, years ago, he could have done that, taken such a leap, thrown himself off a cliff with no safety net, but now...he was a different person now. He stayed.

* * *

Cuddy looked up at a knock on her office door. Foreman was there, holding a medical file.

"Doctor Cuddy? You said to let you know about the patient?"

Cuddy had told House's team that morning that he was out sick. She'd given them the case file and told them to get to work. It had seemed a fairly straight forward case. A young teenage supermodel who had collapsed on the catwalk.

"We took a history, did some labs and a tox screen. She tested positive for heroin. We need to detox her. Cameron is setting her up on a program, they will wean her to methadone, once her addiction is under control we can proceed with the diagnosis. Should take three or four weeks."

Cuddy glanced over the file and nodded. The team were taking the conservative, safe approach rather than doing a rapid detox. Perfectly sound medical procedure. Totally the opposite to how diagnostics would work if House was here, or Greg she would assume.

"I'm going to drop in and see how House is doing tonight, I'll show him this."

Foreman nodded, Cuddy detected a slight sign of relief. For all his seeming self confidence and apparent arrogance Foreman still preferred someone else – House – to carry the ultimate responsibility for their patients, and their treatment.

Foreman hesitated at the doorway. "Is House..is he okay? After yesterday, with the migraine he gave himself...He doesn't seem to be doing very well lately."

Cuddy smiled reassuringly. "He's House, he's nothing if not self destructive. Shall I tell him you asked after him?"

Foreman rolled his eyes, "please don't – I want to keep working here."

Cuddy laughed and kept a pleasant smile on her face as he left her office. Once he had left she tapped the file against the desk, deep in thought. Making up her mind she shoved the folder in her briefcase, told her secretary she was leaving early and headed for her car. Time to check up on Greg and see how he was going.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Cuddy knocked on the apartment door impatiently. She knew Greg was in there, she had heard footsteps when she first knocked but he seemed to be refusing to answer the door. She sighed, it didn't seem like Greg was going to be any easier to deal with than House unfortunately.

"Greg! I know you're there, open up," she yelled at the closed door.

Finally there were more hesitant footsteps and then the sounds of the door being unlocked. Greg stared at her with that blank, disconcerting expression. She noticed that he was breathing a bit harder than she would expect, and the knuckles on the hand holding the cane were white, so tight was he gripping it.

"Is everything okay? Wilson shouldn't have left you alone."

"I don't need a babysitter," Greg snapped and then immediately jerked back slightly.

"No, but this must be very strange for you. Why did you take so long to answer the door?"

Greg's eyes flicked to the door and then back to her. He held up his cane.

"Cripple," he said succinctly.

Cuddy doubted that was the reason, or the whole reason anyway, but let it slide.

They were still standing in the doorway and Cuddy gestured to the inside of the apartment.

"May I come in?"

Greg gave her a puzzled look and she had another moment of realising that this _wasn't_ House. This man wasn't used to anyone asking his permission for anything.

Finally Greg shrugged, "might as well."

She made her way into the main room and sat down. Greg sat on one of the chairs across from her.

"Have you had a good day?" she asked. The concept of making small talk with Greg House was strange but she felt oddly off kilter, unsure with this stranger who looked so much like him but flinched and trembled at the smallest things. Abused, she reminded herself, she was dealing with an abuse victim, with the abuse lasting over sixteen years.

Greg lifted his chin, in the strange gesture she'd noticed before, and stared at her defiantly.

"What do you really want to know? Did Wilson come crying to you about how I was telling lies about him?"

"You weren't talking about _him_. He's not the Wilson of your universe, any more than I'm the Cuddy who bought you for the hospital, or had you whipped."

"You look the same."

"And you look like Greg House, but you're not."

At that Greg dropped his gaze to the ground, and shook his head.

"No...not anymore."

In the awkward silence that followed Cuddy retrieved the file folder from her briefcase. She held it out to Greg. He looked up and stared at the folder as if it were an alien artifice, making no move to take it.

"Your team has a case."

"Not my team. Didn't we just establish that I'm not him? Or are we just picking and choosing?"

"You're here now. I assume that you intend to try and establish an identity here, it would be easiest to take the one that already exists." She held out the file again and he took it, not looking at it.

"So, that's it. Just substitute me for him? Is that what you and Wilson have decided? You get your diagnostics department continuing and he gets, what? A substitute friend? Someone else to 'care' for?"

"I need you for the hospital, yes. If you are as good as House. As for what Wilson wants," she shrugged, "that's up to the two of you to work out. Whatever the other Wilson did to you, this Wilson would never harm you in that way, he wouldn't harm anyone like that."

She leaned forward, as if someone might overhear their conversation if she wasn't discreet.

"Greg, there is something you need to know and remember. _, no-one_ here can _force_ you to do anything against your will, no-one has the right to touch you if you don't want them to. You need to understand that."

He looked at her with wide eyes and then back at the folder, his body language still tense. It would take a while she knew, before he could relax. This whole situation was new to him, and strange, and he wouldn't know from day to day when things might change and he might be gone again. Trust wasn't going to come easily to him.

Greg opened the folder and examined the medical records. The first thing he saw was the name of the attending doctors. Cameron, Chase and Foreman. The same fellows, he supposed he should have expected that. He quickly read through the rest of the notes.

"Nice. So they are going to wait three or four weeks for her to detox and then they might get around to diagnosing her? Great plan, I'm sure she'll enjoy it, of course she might be dead or paralysed by then. Too bad. Morons!"

He thrust the folder back at her, "tell them they're idiots and to do a rapid detox."

"You tell them." Cuddy said, holding out his house phone. Greg stared at if for a while and then slowly took it.

"Do they know? About me?"

Cuddy shook her head, "no, no-one knows except for me and Wilson, seems simpler that way."

"Yeah, the whole alternative-universe explanation really puts a crimp in a conversation." Greg still made no move to use the phone.

"They'll be expecting to hear from you, Foreman knew I was coming here."

Greg stared at the phone, then back at the file and finally pressed the first speed dial button. Cuddy could hear Cameron's voice as she answered the phone.

"Cameron? Yes, I'm peachy, I'm not dying so you don't have to marry me. Now, we've exhausted the topic of my health where are my other minions? Tucking our patient into some nice cosy detox unit? Going to read her bedtime stories?" Greg didn't wait for her answer, "get the father's consent and do a rapid detox." He made a face at the phone and Cuddy could hear indignant squawking from the other end of the line. "Yes, yes, it's dangerous, it could kill her. So could the condition that is being masked by the withdrawal symptoms, life's a gamble. Don't argue, just do it."

Cuddy was struck by the change in Greg as he talked on the phone, he looked a lot more like House and a lot less like a frightened slave, it was as if dealing with the medical matter stripped away years of being beaten down. She had the sudden image of Greg as they first saw him, metal collar around his neck, Wilson's tag dangling from it, standing in the conference room leading a differential. Curing patients, diagnosing rare conditions, passing on his knowledge and his passion to the younger doctors. That one special thing that made House House was here as well. Sixteen years of slavery had not robbed Greg of his unique talent, of that Cuddy was very sure.

Greg pushed the button on the phone to end the call and handed it back to her. There was a slight smirk on his face.

"Cameron says hello," he told her.

Cuddy stood up, satisfied.

"You'll come to the hospital tomorrow?"

Greg glanced at the file, still sitting on the coffee table and then back at Cuddy. He took a deep breath.

"Yes."

* * *

It was much later that evening when Wilson reappeared. Greg had made himself another peanut butter sandwich and was eating that while he cruised the internet on House's laptop. He had verified the truth about this world, that there were no slaves, to his own satisfaction. Now he was exploring the differences between this universe and his own, except for the slave owning the worlds were remarkably similar.

A tentative knock on the door made him jump, he'd been so immersed in what he was doing. Foolish, he was letting his guard down here, he would never have been caught by surprise like that a few days ago. A voice called out 'hello' and he realised it was Wilson, back again.

He'd wondered if he'd be left alone tonight. He hadn't spent a night by himself somewhere since becoming a slave. He had his little cubbyhole in the back of diagnostics, but it wasn't like being by himself. There weren't many people around on that floor at night but there were still some, and hundreds in the building, and there was no lock he could engage to keep them out. Here, he could lock the door, and no-one would ever know what he was doing in here.

He thought for one moment about not answering the door, but Wilson had let himself in last night so he no doubt had a key and Greg would rather keep the illusion of privacy and not have the man force his way in.

He limped over to the door, the bruises and whip marks on his back sharply reminding him of their presence. Wilson was standing there, looking somewhat sheepish, embarrassed. There was a pile of plastic bags by his feet.

"I know I said I wouldn't come back but I didn't think it was right to leave you here by yourself. Don't worry, I'm not going to...I brought you some groceries and things," Wilson explained.

Greg stood aside and Wilson came in, making several trips to pick up the bags. Greg made no attempt to help.

Wilson bustled straight into the kitchen and started putting things away while Greg watched him.

"What are you doing?"

Wilson stopped, startled, "putting the groceries away. I know where everything should go."

"Why did you buy all this food?" Greg poked at one of the bags with his cane.

"Because I thought you might like to have something for dinner? No need to thank me," Wilson added, looking annoyed now.

"I have food," Greg pointed at the jar of peanut butter on the counter, and the bread. "I made myself dinner."

"Peanut butter sandwiches aren't dinner! I'll make you something nice."

"I should only eat what you want me to eat?"

"You should eat proper meals, you're a lot thinner than House."

"I don't need you to feed me. I can do that myself now."

Wilson sighed and reached for another bag. "Fine, just let me finish putting these away then and you can make yourself another sandwich. Here," he thrust a bar of chocolate into Greg's hands. "I got that for you, House's favourite."

Greg looked down at the chocolate bar in his hands and put it down without comment.

"I guess you don't want that either. I'm just trying to help you Greg."

"Maybe I don't want your help."

Wilson looked at him and then shook his head. "Yeah, I guess maybe you don't. There's not much I can say to prove to you that I don't mean you any harm is there? After we _he_ did."

"He always said he didn't want to hurt me, and he used to bring me food, and give me pain meds."

"And then he..." Wilson whispered. "I'm sorry Greg, I'm sorry that happened to you. I'm sorry he hurt you."

There was silence between them. Greg thought that Wilson would run again, confronted by something he didn't want to acknowledge. Instead the younger man finished putting the groceries away and tidied away the debris.

The phone in the other room rang, breaking the silence and after a moment Greg limped over to answer it.

It was Foreman, telling him that their patient had had a heart attack during the rapid detox procedure.

"She's stable now?"

"Yes, but the father wants us to stop treatment."

"And you told him that she'd been in unbearable pain if we did that, and he agreed to stop being an idiot."

"He's concerned – his daughter died..."

"...temporarily..."

"...we told you this was dangerous."

"Yes, yes – I get it, if she dies it's my responsibility. Got it. Now go and deal with the father. Tell him to read a book or something., she'll be out until the morning."

Greg hung up the phone and turned around to find Wilson staring at him.

"That was House's team? You're consulting on his patient?"

"Well, technically, _my_ patient. Cuddy brought the file over before. His teams bright idea was to let the patient take three or four weeks to detox, nice and slow."

"Why do that when you can do it in one day?" Wilson asked. "There's a good chance she won't die from the procedure."

"Well, not permanently anyway. A little heart attack won't hurt her."

Wilson smiled and moved towards the door, "I'll get going."

"I need a lift to the hospital tomorrow," Greg said abruptly. He could find out if House had a car somewhere, or get a taxi, but his money was limited, and he wasn't sure about driving again after such a long time. The idea of trying to figure out the bus system was not attractive.

Wilson stopped a strange expression crossing his face. "You're going in?"

"Bit hard to diagnose her if I'm not there."

"Are you sure you're up to it? I mean...a lot has happened, your back..."

"You don't want me to."

"No..no, it's good, it's just...you taking over from House, like it doesn't matter..."

"Oh, this is the whole 'House was my best friend and I'm going to miss him thing' isn't it? Never mind the kid dying."

"Like you care about the kid dying."

"Sure I do, all life is sacred." Greg stared at Wilson, his eyes wide, his expression sincere.

Wilson looked startled for a moment and then seemed to catch on and grinned ruefully. Greg quirked a little smile of his own.

"Okay, I'll pick you up on the way in tomorrow. What are you going to do about..." he gestured to Greg's throat, which was still red and scarred from the collar. "They'll notice that."

Greg looked around and then towards the bedroom. "Does House have any rolltops?"

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

_He wakes up to find himself strapped face down to a bed, arms and legs spread wide, he's naked and there's a heavy collar around his neck. He's been swapped back while he slept. A wave of despair sweeps through him, to have experienced a bare two days of freedom and then have it snatched away is almost more than he can bear._

 _A hand reaches down and pulls his head up by the hair, twisting his neck around so he can see his tormentor._

" _You took off your collar, Greg, that will be another one hundred lashes." Cuddy tells him, her face twisted with a smile of pleasure. Cuddy has a leash in her hands and she clips one end to his collar and holds the other tightly in her hand._

 _She steps to one side and Greg sees Wilson, standing there with a single tailed whip in his hand and excitement in his eyes. Wilson lifts the whip up ready to strike Greg while he lies prone in the bed._

" _You can't get away from me that easily Greg, I have you tagged. You're mine. Now count the strokes."_

 _He brings the whip down on Greg's tortured back and pain lances through him, he screams._

" _Count them, Greg," Wilson orders him and brings the whip down again._

" _One!" he screams._

His eyes opened and he could hear his scream echoing through the room. His heart was racing and his body was slick with sweat. He looked around the dimly lit room in confusion. He was still here, he hadn't gone back there. He raised a hand and felt around his throat, no collar. Just a nightmare. He'd had them ever since he was a child, they'd been very bad in the first few months of his enslavement and then had gradually faded before returning when Wilson tagged him.

He sat up on the side of the bed, hissing with pain as his back came to life and reminded him of his wounds. He glanced at the bedside clock, three in the morning. Flicking on the light to chase away the last of the nightmare he reached for the bottle of Vicodin. Shaking two out he swallowed them and then got shakily to his feet. He didn't want to sleep again, it had been a nightmare, it hadn't been real, but he knew he had no control over how long he would, or wouldn't, be here. This could end any moment. He didn't want to go to sleep.

He limped out to the kitchen, flicking the lights on as he went. He glanced at the couch, half expecting that Wilson might have snuck back in while he was asleep and slept there. But there was no sign of the man. Greg had been left alone for the night, the first night he'd spent alone in many years. At the hospital a security guard had always come to the door of the office once a night at least, to check that he was where he was supposed to be. Most of them would just check and leave, but the worst of them would give him a spot 'inspection', making him stand naked by his bunk while they searched his meager belongings and then himself.

He made himself coffee and a snack, with the food that Wilson had bought him, no use letting it go to waste, and went into the living room. He glanced at the piano but knew it would be too loud for this time of night. Instead he choose a book from the hundreds available to him and sat down to read.

* * *

Wilson parked the car and made his way up to House's... _Greg's_ door, unsure of what he would find. House was habitually late whenever he picked him up, quite often he would still be asleep, and Wilson would have to wait around while Greg slowly got himself ready for work, and then coax him out the door with a promise of coffee and a fast food fill up on the way. He had no idea what Greg's rising habits were. He wondered whether he'd slept well last night. Wilson would have liked to have stayed, to help, but with Greg's revelations, and his reaction to him, he thought it would be best if he left him alone. Still he was pleased that Greg had asked him for a lift this morning.

Greg answered his knock on the door, apparently ready to go. He'd shaved so that his stubble was at a very low point. His hair was tidy and cut shorter than House's had been, but that could easily be explained by a hair cut. He was wearing a rolltop which disguised the scarring around his neck. The rolltop and the jacket over it hid some of what would be apparent weight loss.

Greg didn't invite him in, instead coming out of the apartment and carefully locking the door behind him, evidently he'd found House's keys, Wilson wondered what else of House he'd found while he was alone in the apartment.

"You look good, Greg," Wilson said, without thinking. Greg gave him a wide eyed startled look but said nothing, instead he went to stand beside the car, staring down at the spotless Volvo. Wilson sighed, being around Greg was like walking on eggshells and he was getting tired of it. House would have been in the car already, fiddling with the radio, playing with every gadget he could get his hands on, and obnoxiously blowing the horn if Wilson was too slow to get into the driver's seat. Instead Greg was just standing on the sidewalk staring.

Wilson went round to the driver's side, "get in Greg," he urged, "I've got a lot on today, we need to get going."

Greg gave him another of those blank looks but opened the door and got in the car. He sat slumped against the side wall, looking out the window. Wilson had the impression that he wasn't admiring the scenery, wasn't even seeing it. Greg was lost in his own thoughts, his own memories. Wilson remembered those words again, he hadn't been able to forget them, _" You used to like to take me back to your hotel room at night_ ". How many times had Greg being in Wilson's car, being driven to somewhere he didn't want to go, unable to protest or say no. Had he been restrained? Handcuffed, shackled?

"We'll be at the hospital soon," he said, hoping to reach Greg, wherever he'd gone to. There was no answer and Wilson swallowed down any further attempts to reassure him and kept driving.

* * *

When Wilson walked in with Greg beside him Cuddy thought she had made a mistake. She'd thought she could substitute Greg for House and keep diagnostics running without skipping a beat, she thought he'd be able to handle it. When he'd talked to Cameron on the phone he'd been just like House, dry, sarcastic, bullying, but absolutely spot on with his medical instincts. She'd thought then it would work.

Now she looked at Greg and wondered how she could ever have thought that. He was dressed like House, except he was wearing a rolltop which House rarely did, and he walked with the same lopsided limp but the man walking in was a slave. He kept his eyes down, his shoulders were tucked in, he was making himself small, trying to be invisible. Instead of the easy way Wilson and House walked the corridors Greg was trailing a half step behind, keeping a wary distance from the man the hospital staff would think of as his best, and only, friend (or his _soulmate_ as Cuddy had once heard it described by a young trainee nurse who'd read one too many romance novels). He looked thinner than House, despite the layers of clothing he wore, and his hair was shorter, neater, the pain lines in his face even deeper than House's. He looked tired and worn, beaten.

She glanced around the lobby, half expecting to see people stop and stare, point fingers and declare Greg an intruder. There was nothing of course, just busy staff going about their jobs, hardly sparing a glance for the pair. Cuddy quickly walked over there.

"Greg? Are you ready for this?" She kept her voice down, and shot a glance at Wilson. He shrugged, he didn't know either.

Greg looked around once and then raised his chin, meeting her gaze. He drew himself up, seeming to put on a cloak of confidence.

"Supermodel isn't going to diagnose herself."

Cuddy quirked a small smile and felt her anxiety lessen a little. Trying to ease the situation she waved her hand around the lobby.

"Does it look the same as yours?"

Greg looked around, his eyes taking in every detail.

"Reception desk, clinic, dragon's den, yep, much the same."

"House did ten clinic hours a week." Cuddy said. Wilson, standing a bit behind Greg, caught her eye, House was supposed to do three hours a week in the clinic, and rarely managed that. Cuddy raised an eyebrow at him, might as well take advantage of the situation to get some more clinic hours out of her doctor who only saw one patient a week.

"I didn't do any clinic duty," Greg rejoined, "patients wouldn't want a nasty slave treating them."

Damn.

* * *

Greg moved towards the stairway, smirking to himself, no way was he going to do clinic hours here. He'd done enough clinic hours to last him a lifetime while he was a slave.

"Greg, the elevator is this way." Wilson's hand brushed his sleeve and he jerked away. He paused at the base of the stairs, looking up at the climb and then back at Wilson. Of course, House would have freely used the elevators, no need to fear being ambushed in them. No struggling up four flights of stairs for him.

He followed Wilson and got in the next elevator car, there was no-one else in the car and he kept his back to the wall and his eye on Wilson.

"My office is next to yours," Wilson offered.

The same arrangement as in his hospital. The resemblance between the two universes was uncanny. The hospital looked almost identical. Except there were less security guards, and the convenient hooks in the walls to tether slaves to were missing. He studied the elevator buttons, if he went to the basement there would be no slaves there, no canteen, no groomers, no dorms of placid slaves, no whipping post.

"Do you want me to come with you to your office?" Wilson asked, ever helpful.

"To introduce me to the people who have worked for me for the least two years?" Greg asked. "That won't arouse their suspicions at all."

"They're used to me hanging around, I often visit diagnostics."

"Of course you do, it's not like the department head of Oncology would have anything better to do."

Wilson stiffened, "House always appreciated my company."

"Did he?"

When the elevator came to a halt Wilson got out before him and stalked off in the direction of his office, clearly annoyed. Greg got out more slowly and limped along the hallway. He came to the familiar office and conference room. Through the glass he could see Chase, Cameron and Foreman sitting around the table, files spread in front of them, they appeared to be arguing about something.

Taking a deep breath he pushed open the door.

* * *


	8. A Slave In the Mirror Chapter 8

"This is House's fault," Foreman was saying as Greg entered the room, "she has anterograde amnesia, short term memory loss, evidence of a hypoxic brain injury; which might be the result of getting cut off from the oxygen when she flat lined – due to the rapid detox procedure House forced on her."

Greg stood in the doorway, frozen. He couldn't help glancing over his shoulder to see if there were guards waiting to haul him down to the basement, to await punishment for harming a patient.

" _No, Cuddy doesn't have me punished for medical mistakes,"_ he thought before he could remember where he was. Cuddy wouldn't punish him, not in any way that really mattered anyway.

He looked up to see all the fellows staring at him, puzzled expressions on their faces.

"You've had a haircut," Cameron said.

"And shaved," Chase added.

"And you're wearing a rolltop," Cameron continued, still looking him over. "You hardly ever wear them."

"Hot date?" Chase asked.

 _They know, they know I'm a slave,_ Greg thought, _they know I'm not House_.

His heart pounding, he made himself look them in the eye, trying to project the air of arrogant confidence he so often adopted to try and retain authority over the free people who worked for him.

"Hooker got a bit carried away last night, left her marks all over me."

"And the haircut?"

"Hooker used to be a hairdresser, I paid her extra for a tidy up."

"Can we get back to the patient?" Foreman asked, rolling his eyes in exasperation though Greg noticed he was still staring at him, a slight frown on his face. A diversion was called for.

Greg drew in his breath in a loud fashion and looked at his watch. The fellows all stared at him.

"Are you through playing stupid games House, we've got to..." Foreman, of course, he had the same annoyingly arrogant personality here apparently. Greg let out his breath.

"Patient flat lined for like 30 seconds, got to be oxygen deprived for longer than that to lose brain function. Her brain's fine." He could hear a faint tremble in his voice and the fellows kept staring at him.

"Are you okay, House? Any after effects of that migraine medicine?" Cameron asked, "maybe you should have some more time off, or get Wilson to check you over. You don't look well."

"Or maybe he just did one too many drugs this morning," Foreman put in, disapproval written all over his face. "If it's not hypoxic brain injury what do _you_ think it is?"

House looked back at the whiteboard, symptoms ticking over in his brain. "She's got Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She's been sexually abused, looking like that she'd have to have been. Her brain is running away from reality. She did the drugs to try and get away, when she couldn't do them anymore her brain started to shut down."

He took a deep breath, his own brain shutting down had been his worst fear over the last sixteen years of abuse. He'd come close a few times, gone into fugue states when he hadn't known who he was or what he was doing. Sometimes he would come to himself in a dark corner of the hospital, huddled down, his body aching, never being quite sure what had happened. He'd seen slaves whose minds had gone, shuffling through the corridors, their eyes vacant, acting like the furniture everyone treated them as. He'd thought that one day he might join their ranks, maybe Cuddy would keep him on as a janitor as a kindness.

The fellows were still staring at him, their expressions sceptical and Cameron had her 'concerned' face on.

Foreman made a scoffing sound, "your theory has the advantages of being completely unprovable and completely exculpating you."

Greg had had enough, his back was still painful, his leg had woken up and was its usually hellish self, and these fellows were as tiresome as his own.

"When you guys are done debating this do an MRI and an LP; when her brain checks out as normal then we'll know that I was right."

He turned away from them and towards his office. As he went to go in he noticed the name on the door, _his_ name. His office had never had a name, just diagnostics department, you wouldn't put the name of a piece of furniture on an office door.

He stared at the name for a minute but then realised conversation had stopped behind him and the fellows were undoubtedly staring at his back, so he went in, sitting down in the reclining chair he found there and lifting his right leg onto the ottoman. As he watched through the glass the fellows picked up their files and left the conference room, no doubt going to run their pointless tests. As they left Cameron kept looking over her shoulder at him, the concern practically dripping out of her eyes.

He laid back in the chair and stared around the office. It was full of books and odd artifacts, more things this House fellow owned. He glanced into the corner behind the desk where his bunk usually was, the bunk he'd slept in for sixteen years, but it wasn't there of course. House didn't _live_ here. He just worked here. He'd gone home every night to a comfortable apartment and a life away from this place. He hadn't lain in a narrow bunk, listening to music on a contraband ipod, with one eye always on the door. He hadn't slept here at night with the lamp on the desk always on because he was afraid of the dark.

Greg reached into his jeans pocket for the Vicodin and gulped two down, noticing that the supply was getting low, still there were plenty more hidden around the apartment and his leg was really hurting today. It always did for days after a severe whipping, once the pain from the whipping had died down and the gating mechanism stopped working.

There was nothing to do now but wait for the fellows to do their tests and catch up with him. Greg lay back in the chair and closed his eyes for a minute, he was tired and it was safe.

* * *

As the three fellows walked away from diagnostics Cameron expounded on her favourite subject – Gregory House.

"He just _looks_ different. The way he stands, the way he's moving, and when he was standing staring at his office door. There's something wrong, I can tell. You must have noticed!"

"Unlike you I don't spend all day watching the ass. You heard him in the differential, all smart mouth and attitude. Seemed like the same old Greg House to me." Foreman put in, rolling his eyes. It was true that he had thought that their boss seemed a bit 'off' today, but House's behavior was often bizarre and this seemed well within tolerance limits.

"You don't think the hair cut and the shave are a bit strange? He's been really struggling since Stacy left, he was doing drugs in the locker room only a couple of days ago, not to mention giving himself a migraine. He goes home, has a sick day and gets himself cleaned up?That doesn't strike you as odd?"

"Maybe he took a look in the mirror and didn't like what he saw." Foreman suggested curtly.

"He's clutching at straws with the abuse thing, " Chase offered. "There's no evidence of it, she didn't seem bothered by her father at all. I think he just _wants_ it to be abuse – confirms his miserable view of the world."

"He did jump to it very quickly," Foreman agreed. "I guess all we can do is hope that the MRI shows something useful, otherwise we'll be bound to report it, and then House really will go off the deep end."

* * *

House was dozing on the chair on his office when Wilson went in to check on him. He felt a brief flash of annoyance that House was able to sleep for a good part of the work day with no-one ever seeming to complain. Wilson was also a Department head and he worked flat out from the moment he arrived, usually hours earlier than House until he left, usually hours later. Then he remembered that this wasn't House, this was Greg, and Greg was recovering from a severe whipping, not to mention the trauma of suddenly being uprooted from his universe and thrust into this one. He shouldn't be here, working, not so soon. Cuddy was being incredibly optimistic if she thought that diagnostics wouldn't skip a beat by simply substituting Greg for House.

The thing was that they really had no idea if Greg was the diagnostician House was, or the doctor, or even the teacher. He'd been a slave for sixteen years apparently, the years when House was forging his current career and position. How much authority had he really had? And how much had his essential personality been affected by being a slave? Surely he wouldn't have been able to make the daring calls he'd made in the past, to treat his patients with the utter disregard for the feelings and emotions as House always had. How many had died because Greg would have been unable to make the hard calls, to bend the rules, for fear of the punishment he'd clearly received over the years?

Hell, they only had Greg's word for it that he'd been running diagnostics at all. They had no idea why he'd been made a slave, was it a punishment for some legal transgression? Why else would a doctor be made a slave? For all they knew Greg was a janitor in his version of PPTH, maybe he spent his life cleaning the toilets. This would be an incredible opportunity to waltz into a high level job in his professional field, regaining what he'd lost when he became a slave. They could be opening the hospital up to all kinds of problems, Greg didn't even have a medical license that was valid here.

Greg opened his eyes sleepily while Wilson watched. There was that small flinch again, that look of wariness in his eyes as he eyed the other doctor standing over him. His eyes darted to the empty conference room and then he looked back at Wilson.

"Don't you have any of your own work to do?"

There was a tremble of defiance in the voice, and Wilson realised again that whatever else Greg might be, he was a very wounded human being. He was misreading all of Wilson's attempts to be friendly and supportive as some sort of sinister ploy to what? Woo Greg to his bed? The whole thing was ridiculous. Wilson was just trying to help.

He held up the bag he was carrying, wondering if Greg would reject this kindness as well.

"Brought you lunch, didn't think you'd want to brave the crowds in the cafeteria. Hope you like dry reubens with no pickle."

Wilson went over to the desk and started setting his and Greg's food out. After a moment he heard Greg struggling to his feet and then limping over to stand looking down at the desk, now laden with food.

Wilson pulled up a chair on the other side of the desk and sat down. After a moment Greg sat down as well, poking at the food in its bag.

"It's not poisoned if that's what you're thinking, " Wilson said, again feeling a flash of impatience. _House_ had always been quite willing to eat anything Wilson supplied, even if he did bitch about it.

"How's it going? Did they suspect anything?"

Greg finally took the reuben out of the bag and took a bite, his expression that blank one that gave away none of his thoughts.

"No, they didn't suspect their boss had been replaced by a guy who was a slave in a different reality. Strange really, would have thought that was the first thing they would have jumped to." Greg said through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Kids these days, no imagination," Wilson agreed.

Greg looked at him, still with the same wary expression in his eyes but there was a hint of a smile on his face.

"Cameron asked me if I was 'okay'."

"Did she? The nerve of her. Next thing you know she'll be asking how you're feeling." Wilson finished off his lunch, observing that Greg looked a little more relaxed. "So how's the case going?"

"Father's abusing her, she's got PTSD."

"You know that, or you're just jumping to that conclusion because she's a knockout?"

"It fits," Greg shrugged. "Foreman and Cameron are doing tests to confirm there's no physical brain damage, then I'll go talk to the dad."

Wilson thought it seemed a big leap, but nothing out of the ordinary for House. House had always been quick to jump to a diagnosis, and always willing to see the worst in human beings. Thinking a teenage supermodel had been molested by her dad would have been a natural conclusion for House. So far this case seemed to be going just as it would if House was here himself to run it. Maybe Cuddy's fantasy of a continuing diagnostics programme would come true after all. And Wilson would be the only one who would mourn the loss of House.

* * *

Greg felt unsettled after Wilson finished his lunch and departed. It was strange being around a Wilson who wasn't the man who had tagged him yet had so many of the same mannerisms and habits. Bringing him food, trying to be friendly, thinking he knew what was best for Greg. That was how his Wilson had started, by insinuating himself into Greg's life. Of course Greg had always known the nature of his interest, but he had hoped, just briefly, that he was wrong.

He looked around the empty office and realised that it was after lunch and he hadn't moved from here. He was confining himself to the office, just as he would have in his old life, only venturing out if he had to. Here, he had the freedom to roam around the hospital at will, to use the elevators, to not have to be wary of every free person in the place. In his own world as soon as he stepped foot outside diagnostics he became Greg, here he would always be 'Doctor House' to everyone but Cuddy and Wilson. No magic transformation would happen at the door of his office.

He levered himself to his feet and walked out, going boldly to the elevator but casting a wary glance at Wilson's closed office door. If Wilson saw him he would probably want to come with him, to 'help' him. Well he didn't need that.

He made his way to the first floor, where he'd come in that morning, looking around him curiously. There was a small shop near the reception desk, stocked with flowers, chocolates, stuffed teddy bears, all the usual paraphernalia someone would take to a 'loved one' staying in a hospital to show them they cared. His attention was caught by a small display of glossy magazines near the front, with pictures of celebrities splashed on them. The sort of magazine he used to buy before. As he stared at them one in particular caught his eye, the young model posing provocatively on the front cover was his patient, he recognised her from the mug shot helpfully enclosed with the file. He picked the magazine and flipped to the article, starting to read it.

"Hey! Magazines are for buying, not reading." The disgruntled store owner yelled at him from the counter and he looked up in surprise. His eyes darted back to the article, he wanted to read it, he had the feeling he was missing something with the patient. He dug into his pocket for the money he shoved in there this morning. Carefully he pulled out the crumpled five dollar bill and passed it over.

As he walked away clutching his magazine he couldn't help a small smile appearing on his face at the completely ordinary transaction. He wondered how he could have ever taken such things for granted.

Nobody seemed to be paying him any attention and, emboldened, he crossed the lobby and reception area to the main entrance doors. There was security guard near the door and he nearly stopped, but then he remembered that he was within his rights to leave, no-one would stop him.

He limped slowly towards the door, eyes firmly on the floor, towards the sunny day outside, towards freedom.

* * *

Brenda Previn was not amused, the clinic was seething with patients and Doctor House had once again failed to turn up for his clinic shift. Without even the courtesy of a phone call. House was a gigantic pain in Brenda's butt. Brenda had started out in this hospital as a general duties nurse, and then, along with Doctor Cuddy, had built this clinic from the ground up. They were bringing medical services to those who could not afford to seek them elsewhere. Yet most of the doctors in this hospital acted like a couple of hours of clinic duty a week were pure purgatory, Doctor House being the worst of that group.

She'd almost rather that Cuddy just excused House from clinic duty permanently, the son of a bitch was rude and arrogant to the patients, Brenda spent a lot of time fielding complaints about him. He was almost more trouble than he was worth. But sometimes, occasionally, he'd diagnose a clinic patient, casually, with something that the rest of the doctors would have missed. He saved lives. And that made the trouble he caused worth it. Mostly.

She looked up and caught a glimpse of the man in her thoughts as he limped heavily across the lobby. He looked...different somehow, tired, in pain, as always, but also as if he wasn't sure he should be there, his gaze was firmly on the floor, his movements almost tentative. She shook it off, House was House, there was no accounting for all his moods.

"Doctor House," she called loudly. As she watched he seemed to flinch, and then he turned towards her. To her surprise he changed course and limped up to her, normally he would have kept going, escaping as fast as he could.

"Yes, Nurse Previn?"

She stared at him, feeling her mouth drop open in surprise. In all the years she'd known him he'd rarely called her anything, let alone Nurse Previn. And he sounded sincere, not mocking.

Recovering from her shock she handed him a patient folder.

"You're late for clinic duty, you have a patient, exam room one."

He stared at the folder for a moment, as if he'd never seen one before and then looked around the waiting area, probably plotting an escape path she thought.

"Exam room one," she repeated firmly, motioning with her arm slightly as if pointing the way, which was ridiculous because House knew damn well where exam room one was. House looked at her and then gave a little nod, almost like a nod of acknowledgment and went off in the direction of the exam room, clutching the file folder in one hand.

Brenda watched for a moment but the door didn't reopen, no outraged patient came back out so she shrugged and went back to her work. House was House. There was no accounting for his behaviour most of the time.

* * *

Chase and Cameron were still running the MRI when Foreman saw House approaching the patient's room. Probably returning from his clinic shift, if he had even bothered to turn up for it. He was carrying one of his stupid tabloid magazines in one hand and leaning heavily on his cane with the other. He looked tired.

Foreman fell in next to House's limping step. He needed to find out exactly where House was going with this abuse thing. Cameron, annoying as she was being about it, was right, House had been decidedly 'off' in the differential. And he did seem to be in a lot of pain today, moving stiffly, his posture off. If he was in more pain than usual, if he was _upset_ (hard as it was to believe) about Stacy leaving, then he was likely to be even more reckless than usual. And that could lead to big problems, for their patient, and for the department. It was up to Foreman to try and prevent the disaster that loomed on the horizon.

"Why would your mind go to abuse so fast?" he asked. House glanced at him and then kept walking, Foreman had to hurry to catch up. "House!" he called, reaching out a hand to House's arm, trying to get him to stop and just _talk_ to him. To his surprise House flinched at his touch, pulling away quickly.

"Look, House, I don't know if it's something with this case, or you got something personal going on, the breakup maybe, but your pain is affecting your decision making."

House stopped walking, turned around to look at him. Foreman had expected to see anger, resentment at this intrusion – if there was one thing House hated, ironically enough, it was for his personal life to come up for discussion. Other people's personal lives? Sure, great fun, his own? No, completely out of bounds. Instead of anger, though, there was a wariness in his eyes.

"My pain is none of your business," House retorted.

"It is if it's endangering the patient. Pain can affect your mood. If I'm right about the pain you're going to want to rush everything, which is what you're doing. Don't."

House stared at him a moment longer and then nodded, eyes darting away from Foreman, looking at the ground.

Foreman relaxed slightly, good, he seemed to have gotten through to House.

House walked away from him, towards the father who was standing in the entrance to his daughter's room. Foreman watched him as he lifted his chin up, glanced around the corridor and then seemed to take a tighter grip of both the magazine and his cane. He faced the father head on.

"Are you doing your daughter?"

* * *

Greg guided the furious father into the nearest bathroom. The man had his fists balled up by his side. Greg figured he had about ten seconds before the father would hit him. Oh well, it wasn't like Greg wasn't used to being hit. He braced himself for the blow.

"I should take your head off," the father yelled at him but surprisingly failed to follow it up with the expected blow. .

Greg watched carefully as the man paced around the small bathroom. One part of Greg's mind noted that the bathroom was nowhere near as spotlessly clean as the ones in _his_ universe. Slaves working twelve hours a day with the threat of a caning for poor performance made spectacularly good cleaners.

"How could you even _think_ that I would...with my own _daughter_."

"I've seen people sell their own children into slavery, so they could get out of debt themselves. You describe your daughter as having a _heart shaped ass, perfect perky all natural breasts._ You describe her as if she was a prize animal being sold. You don't care about her except what money you can make off her, why would you stop at having sex with her?"

The father was gaping at him, looking confused.

"What...Slavery? What are you talking about?"

"Do you love her?" Greg asked, the hand holding his magazine shaking as he waited for the man's answer. "Do you love her _enough_ to save her life by being honest with me?"

The father turned away from him, unable to look at him, and Greg had his answer. He closed his eyes briefly and then walked out of the bathroom without another word, throwing the magazine in the trash as he went. He didn't want to read any more.

* * *

"Ready to go home?" Wilson again, of course. Greg looked up from where he was examining the contents of House's desk. So far he'd unearthed a stack of tabloid magazines, some comics, and some graphic pornography, as well as numerous toy cars, some dominoes and a couple of hand held games machines. He'd seen some patients and their visitors playing with similar games but had never had a chance to play one himself. He slipped the smallest one into his pocket for further investigation.

Wilson was standing in the doorway, looking as immaculate as he had this morning, car keys in his hand. At least he didn't have a leash. Greg considered sending him away, making his own way back to the apartment, but that would be foolish, the same obstacles that were there this morning were still there. This Wilson wasn't the man who put a tag on him. This Wilson would drop him at the apartment. He wouldn't handcuff him to a bed. He wouldn't undress him and spend his time examining Greg's scar, handling him, petting him, fucking him.

If Wilson did try any of that then Greg was allowed to fight back. And Greg had a cane.

* * *


	9. A Slave In the Mirror Chapter 9

When they pulled up outside the apartment Wilson switched off the engine and started to get out of the car.

"Where are you going?" Greg asked, tightening his grip on his cane.

Wilson got a hurt, kicked puppy, look on his face and then sighed.

"I was going to come in for a bit, maybe make some dinner, but I guess you don't want me to."

"Nope."

"How's the back? I should have a look at it, put some more cream on it."

"Back is fine. Whip marks don't need any special treatment, never had any in the past anyway."

"Doesn't mean you need to suffer now, it's different here, I keep trying to tell you that."

Greg touched his throat, "I know it's different here, not likely to forget it. And I have these," he fished his little bottle of Vicodin out of his pocket, took two out and swallowed them dry.

"Strictly speaking _you_ don't have a prescription for those."

Greg shrugged, "close enough. If I can stay in his apartment, wear his clothes and do his job pretty sure I can take his pills."

Wilson's expression tightened but he shut up and got back into the driver's seat. Putting on his seat belt in a fairly pointed manner, he started the engine again.

"I guess you want picking up again tomorrow?"

Greg shrugged. "Unless I make other arrangements."

Wilson shook his head. "You're more like him that you might think. See you tomorrow."

Greg stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off. Then he turned and made his slow way into the apartment. He didn't think 'home' – not yet.

* * *

Cuddy was working late in her office, she'd seen Greg and Wilson leave an hour or so ago and hoped that everything was okay there. There had been no complaints about Greg today at least, and to her surprise the clinic logs showed that Greg had even done a clinic shift. She'd mentioned it casually to Brenda, who'd reported that House seemed a bit distracted and unusually subdued. Cuddy put that down to the strangeness of his situation, and him feeling his way in this new place, which must look very familiar but seem very alien.

Cuddy had tried not to think too much about Greg, and how he must have lived before coming here. She could see from the scarring on his back that his life hadn't been easy. She thought of all the times 'her' Greg House had caused problems in the hospital, all the times he'd been up before disciplinary committees of one sort or another and imagined how those problems must have been resolved in the 'slave' universe. She couldn't deny that at one time or another she'd thought of bending House over her desk and spanking him ( and having him screw her afterwards she admitted to herself in the privacy of her own fantasies) but having the _power_ to order him physically punished...She wondered if her other self had slept with Greg on that same night that she had with House, that one night stand that had never been mentioned again. To sleep with him, and then years later to _own_ him, and to treat him so harshly, was it that Cuddy's ultimate revenge?

Footsteps interrupted her thoughts and she looked up to see Cameron entering her office. The young doctor had her 'disapproving' expression on and Cuddy sighed.

"What has Greg done?" she asked, the words escaping before she had a chance to consider them. Cameron had seemed ready to launch into a tirade but now stopped and looked at her in puzzlement.

"Greg?"

Cuddy cursed herself for her carelessness but didn't allow her anxiety to show on her face.

"Gregory House, your boss? I assume that you are here to report him, or to complain about him, or to have me sort out all your problems with him for you."

Cameron coloured slightly but she was nowhere near as easily flustered now as she had been when she first started working for House and she kept staring at Cuddy with that 'puzzle-solving' expression on her face.

"You never call him Greg. Is there something wrong? He was looking... _different_ today. Besides having shaved, and had a haircut, he just seemed different to how he was a couple of days ago."

Cuddy glanced at her watch, trying to give the impression of being in a hurry. "He seemed the same annoying ass as he's always been to me. Is there anything I can do for you, Doctor Cameron?"

Cameron stared at her for a couple of seconds more and then seemed to shift gear. "It's about our patient..."

After she'd heard Cameron out, and assured her appropriate measures would be taken, Cuddy kept her professional, polite expression on until Cameron had left her office and then she groaned and put her head in her hands.

Greg had diagnosed his teenage supermodel patient with PTSD due to sexual abuse, and then had confronted the Dad with his suspicions. Not only that, but on confirmation that the Dad had indeed 'done' the daughter, he'd proceeded to completely ignore his professional obligation to report this instance of abuse to Child Protective Services. Apparently his reasoning had been that if CPS inconveniently arrested the father they could lost a valuable source of information in diagnosing his child.

Cuddy had to admit it made a warped sort of Housian sense, and Cameron had also reported that father and daughter seemed to have a good relationship, but of course it was irrelevant. Now that Cuddy knew about it, _she_ was obligated to report it. And _she_ wasn't risking _her_ career to make it easier for Greg to get his diagnosis.

One day. Greg hadn't been able to make it through _one day_ before doing something that would jeopardise his medical license and his position at the hospital. And Cameron was suspicious about the changes in House. Of course it was unlikely that Cameron would jump to the right conclusion but if she was suspicious it was probable that the other two were as well.

Suddenly her plan to simply substitute Greg for House didn't seem such a bright idea after all.

* * *

Greg was cooking dinner. It wasn't much, some pasta and chicken, but it was the first meal he'd cooked for himself for years. A hot dinner cooked by him, not dished up in the slave canteen, or brought to him by Wilson. Sure, the ingredients had been supplied by Wilson but Greg had chosen this meal and cooked it himself. He had chosen what to eat, and when to eat it.

He took it through to the living area to eat, flipping on the television with the remote. There was a dizzying array of channels to choose from, apparently House had believed it important to have hundreds of channels. Most of the shows were new to him, though there were a few he used to watch. He was still trying to find something he wanted to watch when there was a loud banging on the front door.

He jumped and stared at the door. Wilson? Or maybe Cuddy? He stared at the television and thought about just ignoring it. But the banging was persistent and whoever it was obviously knew he was here from the sounds of the TV. He grabbed his cane and limped to the door, yanking it open.

An annoyed looking young man was there.

"About time. I'm doing you a favour, you know. Most people manage to get themselves to the shop to pick up their bikes." The man glanced at his cane and then away. "Come on, come and check her out so I can get home."

House carefully looked the door behind him and followed the man out to the street, intrigued by the mention of a bike. There on the sidewalk was a motorbike. House's apparently. _His_.

The man was chattering on, telling him about the work that had been done on the bike but Greg didn't hear any of it, he was staring at the bike.

"Okay, man, there you go. She's like brand new now, shouldn't have any more problems. Boss said you're all square now and he doesn't owe you anything more. Here's the keys."

The man gave him a set of keys, a piece of paper detailing the work done, and stood there. Greg looked at him, still overwhelmed and stared at the keys in his hand. _His keys, his bike_.

"Okay, thanks," he managed to say and the kid stared at him a bit longer and then threw his hands up and left. The word 'asshole' clearly floated back to Greg but he didn't care.

He had a bike.

He could go anywhere he wanted.

* * *

Wilson stared at Greg when he opened the door the next morning. He was wearing House's leather motorcycle jacket and carrying his helmet. For one moment he thought that Greg was gone and House was back and he started to smile before he realised his mistake.

"Yep, still here," Greg said, missing nothing. "Sorry. Are you going to be disappointed every morning when you see me?"

"I don't know. Are you going to see that other Wilson every time you see me?" Wilson shot back, he hadn't missed the wariness in Greg's eyes when he opened the door.

Wilson couldn't deny that he'd been disappointed that Greg hadn't swapped back. It hurt even more to see Greg with House's stuff, emphasizing that House was gone and Greg had taken his place. He was taking everything of House's, as if it was his by right.

"What are you doing with those?"

"Taking the bike in this morning." Greg said casually, but his eyes never left Wilson's face – waiting for a reaction.

"Are you insane? When was the last time you rode a motorcyle?" Wilson asked, not liking the idea of Greg taking out House's pride and joy. "And do you have a license?"

"No, about sixteen years ago, and no – but your friend House does. Pretty sure I'd pass for him."

Greg stepped out of the apartment and locked the door behind him. Wilson followed him out to the street, seeing the bike there. Greg went over to it and with some maneuvering straddled the seat, clipping his cane into the holder House had had placed there. Wilson went to stand beside him.

"Greg, I really don't think this is a good idea," he said, in a calming tone of voice. This was an insane idea, House was dangerous enough on that thing, he couldn't imagine what Greg would be like on it.

Greg put on his helmet and revved the engine.

"Don't worry Wilson, it's just like riding a bike, you don't forget. Oh, wait, it _is_ riding a bike. See you at the hospital."

With that Greg made his way off the sidewalk, the bike wobbling a bit. As Wilson watched the bike gathered speed until it was roaring down the street and out of sight.

Wilson hurried to his car and went to follow, praying he wouldn't find Greg splattered on the side of the road somewhere.

* * *

The trip was scary, but in a good way. Not scary like kneeling before Cuddy waiting to find out how many lashes he would get, or lying handcuffed to a hotel bed and watching Wilson move around the room, and then approach him, smiling, or being trapped in an elevator with a couple of horny medical students. No, this was an adrenaline rush. This was him risking his life, because he _could_. His choice, his actions, his life to risk. Nobody could punish him for this. Nobody could tell him not to, well, they could tell him, but they couldn't _make_ him stop. Every minute he spent here, as a free person, he felt the old Greg House coming back. Riding a bike was one of those things he hadn't realised quite how much he'd missed until now.

He parked the bike in a disabled parking spot near the hospital. That was another thing he'd missed out on – disabled parking spots. There had been absolutely no advantages to his injury in his old world, here was one small one anyway.

He entered the hospital, his thoughts on his patient. His team had found elevated protein levels in the CSF so whatever this was, it wasn't just PTSD from her Dad doing her. The results of the brain biopsy had been negative according to a late night report from Foreman. So the mystery of the twitching teenage supermodel still remained to be solved.

"House!" A voice called out as he entered the lobby and he looked around. Cuddy was standing at the doorway to her office, hands on hips. She crooked a finger at him and pointed to her office. He had a sudden mental image of 'his' Cuddy pointing like that to a spot on the floor in front of her desk and swallowed hard, his good mood disappearing. Reluctantly he limped over there and sidled past her into the office, she shut the door behind them.

"I don't know how it worked where you're from Greg, but here, if we find evidence that a father is abusing his daughter we inform the proper authorities. We're _mandated_ to do so. I've called Child Services for you, this time, but if you're going to work here you need to work within our rules."

Greg figured it would be easier to pretend ignorance of the correct procedure rather than argue his case. In his own universe he would also have been obliged to report it, although the protocol would have been to report it to Cuddy who would have taken the proper steps. Child services weren't going to take any testimony from a slave after all. If it was found that he was wrong then he would have been severely punished for accusing a free person of a crime.

In his own universe he would have done exactly the same as he had done here, not reported, in the interests of keeping the father around to provide information on his daughter.

"Okay," he said, "now I know."

Cuddy's look softened and she sat down on the couch and gestured for him to sit next to her. He did so, not looking at that spot on the floor where he would normally kneel for her lectures.

"Look Greg, I know this can't be easy for you, obviously we do things differently here. But while you're settling in it might be worth letting me into the loop with what's happening with your patient. Cameron was in here last night, complaining about you primarily, but she has also picked up on there being something different about you. If there are any major decisions to be made you should run them past me first, we can discuss them and come up with the best course of action."

"Either I can do the job or I can't. If I go running to you every time I need to make a decision the team _will_ think there's something wrong. I didn't do that in my hospital and I don't know, but I bet that your 'House' didn't do that either." Greg lifted his chin and stared at her and then stood up. "If you don't trust me, if you think I can't do this, then I'll take off this rolltop and show them my back, show them my throat. Show them what I am. I'll lose them, and you'll lose your diagnostics department." He put his hands on the hem of the jersey he was wearing, ready to peel it off.

Cuddy's eyes widened at his threat and she waved her hands, stopping him.

"No, don't. I was just trying to help you, I don't want them to find out that you're not House."

"The best way to _help_ me is to get out of my way and let me diagnose this patient. If I do that, the team won't ever suspect anything's changed. And _you've_ just made our work a lot harder."

Greg turned and limped out of the office without another word. Cuddy went to the door and watched him make his way across to the elevators. As she was watching, Wilson entered the hospital, coming straight up to her.

"Did Greg get here okay? Stupid idiot rode House's bike in. Lucky if he wasn't killed. He's as stubborn as House."

Cuddy kept watching Greg, a slight smile on his lips. "Yes, he's just like him isn't he?"

* * *

"She has paraneoplastic syndrome, we need to find the tumour," Greg said as he paced the conference room. The 'squeeze the tube' test had confirmed it as far as he was concerned. There was cancer there somewhere, they just had to find it.

"Okay, shall I get Wilson or do you want to?" Chase asked, gathering up the files.

"It doesn't have to be him, I'm sure there are other oncologists in this hospital," Greg said, distracted, as he turned over the symptoms in his head again

The team all looked at each other and then back at him.

"But we always use Wilson," Cameron said. "You _never_ want to use anyone else."

"I didn't think you knew there _were_ any other oncologists here," Chase put in.

"Have you guys had a fight?" Cameron asked, "he hasn't been around as much during this case has he? Is something wrong?"

"Yes, he stole my lunch money and I got the bigger kids to beat on him," Greg answered in a sneering tone, hoping to distract them.

"No, seriously, he was looking a little upset when I saw him yesterday...If you guys have had a fight, if you've done something to annoy him, you should apologise to him..."

"There's nothing wrong!" Greg shouted, bringing his cane down for emphasis. "Wilson and I are Best Friends Forever, we haven't had a fight and I'm sure Wilson will be happy to drop everything he's doing and come and help." He looked up, saw the man himself passing the

window and yelled out, "Wilson! Need you!"

* * *

Greg was standing on the roof of the hospital, looking out across the city. It had been a struggle to get up the stairs and out here but it was worth it. He used to do this before, come up to the roof, to get away for a few minutes from the ever present reality of being a slave. To look out onto a wider world. To feel open sky all around him. Not that he could ever really escape the reality of course, but he had always enjoyed being up here, and imagining. He hadn't done it much, since Stacy, and then the leg.

His team and Wilson had spent all day testing the supermodel for cancer, every bone in her body, every organ she possessed. Nothing. It _had_ to be cancer, it all fit. He just couldn't work out where it was hiding.

It had been... _interesting_ working with Wilson _._ He'd been coolly professional, taking painful samples from the girl, reassuring her, checking the scans. He'd done it without any of the possessive glances that his Wilson usually gave him. The Wilson in his world didn't seem to see Greg as anything more than an object of lust – didn't see him as a doctor at all. It was oddly reassuring to realise that Wilson here was used to working with House, as a fellow doctor. Maybe Wilson hadn't been lying when he had said that he and Greg were nothing more than colleagues and friends here.

He looked over the edge of the roof, mildly surprised to see that the suicide netting wasn't in place here. No need to stop desperate slaves from hurling themselves off the roof. Apparently desperate patients weren't as important. His mind was still busily churning over the puzzle of the twitchy supermodel when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around quickly, only to see Wilson closing the distance between them.

Wilson looked as surprised to see Greg as Greg was to see Wilson. Greg moved away from the edge.

"Checking up on me?"

Wilson shook his head, "no, I wasn't looking for you." He rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged ruefully. "I guess I was looking for House in a way. He used to come up here sometimes, said it helped him think. So I thought I would give it a try."

"You miss him," Greg realised, "you miss talking to him."

Wilson sighed and sat down on the ledge running around the edge of the roof.

"Yeah. I mean, we never talked about anything, you know, _meaningful,_ but we did talk, and have lunch together sometimes, and..." he rubbed the back of his neck, looked embarrassed. "Sorry, I mean, it's great that you've escaped that place, but...just, working with you today, it just made me realise that he's gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, and when I think where he probably is..."

"He might come back," Greg said flatly, knowing what that would mean for himself.

"Yeah, maybe, and then you'd be gone and...well, I don't want that either. So..." he trailed off, and stared out across the city.

"When did you meet him?" Greg wondered how it had played out here. In his own universe he'd met Wilson when he came to work at PPTH only a couple of years ago, obviously this House and Wilson had known each other longer.

"Oh, sixteen years ago, at a conference in New Orleans. I had just been served divorce papers, got into trouble at a bar and was arrested. He bailed me out."

Greg's Mom had used an expression, 'like someone walked over my grave'. Greg had usually rolled his eyes when she used it but now he knew what she was describing. He had been scheduled to speak at that conference in New Orleans, to deliver a paper on obscure causes of kidney diseases, and to be on a panel. Instead his life had fallen apart and he'd become a slave. If he'd gone to that conference, if he hadn't been a slave, would he have met his universe's Wilson? Would he have bailed him out of jail? Would they have become friends?

"How did you...how do people become slaves?" Wilson asked, in a seemingly casual manner but Greg could see the curiosity in his expression. Wilson was apparently both appalled by the idea of slavery but also drawn to it. "Are they born that way or..."

Greg laughed without humour. "No, there aren't three genders where I come from – Man, Woman and Slave, people aren't _born_ slaves." He trailed off, staring into space. Something had gone off in his brain, some connection made. He reached for that thread of thought, his mind ticking over the symptoms of the twitchy teenager one more time. Got it.

He reached for his cane and limped off, leaving Wilson staring at his back.

* * *

He went to her office again, this time without her calling him in.

"So, did I pass the test?" He asked as he walked in the door. Cuddy looked up from her work and smiled at him.

"It wasn't a test..."

"Sure it was. Can't say I blame you. You want to know if the slave can do the job before you buy them."

"You're not a slave and I'm not buying you."

Greg looked out the window of her office. He wasn't a slave now, but he didn't belong here. Arriving here didn't make him House, anymore than finding a set of testicles made his patient a guy. He didn't know what he was now.

"I _will_ hire you though. On paper of course you're already hired, you already have tenure. Only you, I and Wilson will ever know the difference."

He contemplated working here, this bizarre copy of PPTH, where there were no slaves, but there would always be memories. He thought about getting on his bike and riding off. Never returning. Going somewhere else, somewhere he hadn't been a slave.

"I could leave," he said aloud, "work somewhere else."

"No-one else will hire you. I got House cheap because of his reputation, he'd been fired by more hospitals than most doctors work in in a lifetime. No other administrator will risk having you on staff. You _need_ us Greg." Cuddy paused and then her expression hardened. "I wouldn't feel comfortable allowing you to go to another hospital and not informing them of who you are, and there's the tricky question of your medical license. It really would be in your best interest to stay here, at least for a while Greg. You can use House's apartment, his bike, his clothes, his things. I'm sure you've already figured out how to access his accounts. You can have a good life here Greg, if you want it."

He heard the implicit threat in his words. Leave and he would lose access to all those things.

"So, I'm not really free, am I?" he asked quietly, feeling the weight of the collar around his neck again.

Cuddy smiled, gesturing around her office, at the piles of work on her desk. "Are any of us?"

* * *

He visited the supermodel before he left the hospital for the day. She was sitting on the bed, alone, her ever present father nowhere in sight.

"Dear old Dad nowhere around?"

She looked up at him, her wide eyes devastated. Everything she thought she knew about herself was gone, her world shattered. The news that she was biologically a boy far outweighing the news that she had cancer.

"He doesn't want to be around me, he doesn't know how to treat me. When the industry finds out, my career will be over."

"Maybe, maybe not. You're still the same person, a little bit of biology doesn't make you different. You just have to _make_ them treat you the same. Show them you are still valuable."

"I don't know how, this is all I had. I don't know how to live now."

"You survive. You go on. That's all you can do. Sometimes things get better."

He left her there, forgetting her as soon as he walked out the door. She'd learn to live with it, or she wouldn't, that was a choice only she could make.

* * *

The apartment was silent, he'd switched the television off and stood staring at the piano. It was immaculate, in tune, a testimony to what it had meant to the man who had lived here. He thought about House, the nights he must have spent in this apartment. He wondered what he'd thought about his past, his life and his future. What dreams had he once had that he would never achieve now? Had he been happy here?

He sat down on the piano stool, putting a glass of scotch and his Vicodin bottle on the top of the piano. He glanced at the clock, it was late, but he needed to do this.

He placed his hands on the keys and began to play, softly at first, fingers tentatively finding their way back to the familiar places.

The music flowed from him, as a part of him came to life that had been dead for years. Memories, dreams, wishes, all came out through his fingers on the keys. Where a few days they'd only been pain and hardship in his future, now there was hope.

After a while there was banging on the ceiling, he was disturbing the neighbours.

He grinned, he was causing trouble, well he was used to that. As he played louder, and the banging increased, he put his head back and laughed.

This was freedom.

The End


End file.
